Dance With the Devil
by Winged'Pollution
Summary: Since childhood, Jacqueline has adapted to survive. When she accidentally stows away to the Colonies from her native France, things spiral out of her control...For better and for worse. Eventual Connor/OC.
1. Between the Devil and the Sea

_I don't really know how this is going to turn out, but let's wait and see! Yes, the beginning is rather…dark…but Connor will enter the picture later, I promise. _

_W'P_

"_Sorrow found me when I was young. Sorrow waited and Sorrow won." –"Sorrow," The National_

_-o-_

The countryside smelled of bread.

To Jacqueline's ten-year-old mind, this was all that mattered at present. Little bare feet rushed through the whispering green grass that stretched over her head. A blond puppy with no name ran besides her, barking excitedly. The careless pair followed the path they had made back to home. Little specks of dust, tiny green bugs, broken flecks of grass and topsoil drifted up around them in a golden cloud in the reddish-yellow sunset, making the scene a heavenly one.

"Jacqueline!" A voice called from the house on the hill. The cottage was quaint and made of bricks. "Jacqueline!"

"Here, mama!" She called back, stumbling from the tall grass into the small, trimmed yard around the cottage. "I'm here!"

"Oh, there you are, _cherie_." The woman knelt and embraced her daughter. Dark hair was pinned back in a bun. Her features were open and round, her complexion fair and sun-kissed. Jacqueline thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. "Come, supper is almost ready."

"Can the puppy come, mama?" Jacqueline wriggled restlessly to look at the happy pup behind her. "Can she? Please? _Si'l vous plaît_, mama! _Si'l vous plaît!_"

"You can bring her some bread after we eat, _cherie._" She picked the girl up and walked back into the house. The dusty puppy morosely watched the door close and lay its tiny head on its paws.

Inside the little house, a man was already sitting at the table. He was lean and muscular, with a trimmed beard and deep laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. Papers were sitting in front of him on the table. Jacqueline didn't care about those, even though he quickly shuffled them out of the way when they walked in. She caught a glimpse of a symbol stamped in red. It was sharp and odd, like a compass of some sort.

Arlette set her in the seat beside him, and the man turned to smile at her. "_Salut, _Jacqueline. Did you have fun today?"

"_Oui,_ papa!" Jacqueline bounced up and down. "I found a butterfly and I tried to catch it but it flew away and then I found a puppy and it followed me home and Mama said I could give it bread after we eat! We can, can't we, Mama?"

"Of course, Jacquie." Her French voice murmured from the oven as the freshly baked bread came out. "Arnaud, take those papers away. Not at the dinner table."

"They are away, Arlette." He sighed, straightening the documents up and setting them aside. A shallow dish of olive oil was set at the table with a few half-crushed, steaming slices of the bread. A little bowl of _cassoulet_ was put in front of each chair, and Arlette took her own place.

"_Bon appetite, _my loves." She raised a glass of wine, and her husband clinked glasses with her.

"It looks wonderful." Arnaud complimented, and they all prepared to eat when a tiny, frantic yelp sounded outside the door. There was a pause. "That's the pup, then?"

"Yes, I wonder what it's going on about." Arlette wondered aloud suspiciously. The dog was barking and growling in its high-pitched puppy voice like mad.

Arnaud stood and moved to the window. He only glanced out for a split second and ducked down. "Go, Arlette! It's them!"

Just as he said it, someone knocked firmly on the door, four times.

"Take Jacqueline and go!" He ushered them to the back door, pulling a sword from under his chair and holding it defensively. "Go, my love! I will find y—"

The door crashed open. Jacqueline screamed and Arlette scooped her up. They ran to the back door and out into the field. Steel scraped on steel behind them. Men yelled in a language Jacqueline didn't understand. She cried loudly, though her mother tried to silence her. Their footsteps hushed through the grass and wildflowers. Armor and clothing rustled arrogantly behind them, getting closer by the second.

After gasping to a halt, the two stopped running. Her mother knelt at her level and pulled something off from around her neck—it was the same symbol as on her father's papers.

Tears glittered on her face. The salty streams were silver in the light of the young moon. Arlette hugged her tightly and very briefly. "_Je t'aime." _She whispered, and pulled back. "Now _courir_, _cherie_. Never stop." The necklace was put around her neck.

"Mama!"

"_Courir, _Jacqueline!" Arlette wailed. A faint glimmer of metal shone as she pulled a knife somewhere to face their attackers.

The girl could only watch as they faced off. Her mother was jabbing at them tauntingly, circling around in desperate, harried circles to face them. There were four. A red cross was adorned on their outfits. Arlette dove forward and the blade sank into a neck. One of the men raised his sword and her mother screamed. The heavy crumple of clothing and dead weight struck Jacqueline to her soul and pinned her to the spot.

One of the soldiers turned and looked at her. He wore a helmet. In his hideous foreign language, he said something to the others. They looked to her as well. A man more finely adorned than the others said something and brusquely waved a hand and shrugged a shoulder. The others turned and followed him away.

Jacqueline turned and ran off into the grass. Her vision was watery and colors were mixing into each other. It was hard to run and cry at the same time.

At the top of the hill, she turned and looked down. An imprint in the grass showed where her mother lay, not far away. The soldiers were gone. She knelt in the grass to hide, but also to mourn. On the hill, the cottage was in flames. Black smoke billowed up from it and into the air, staining the blue night sky like an inkwell that had been tipped over. Her clothing was wet with something, and she didn't know what it was. It didn't smell of bread anymore. It smelled of sulfur and coppery blood, and she wept great heaving, screaming sobs, and howled to the moon.

_Two Years Later._

The marketplace bustled with life. Stray animals sniffed curiously at passersby. Merchants cried out advertisements for their products, gesticulating wildly with their hands. One in particular, a plump and mean-looking man, let his beady eyes drift off his wares for a half second to observe the figure of a woman walking by. An apple disappeared from his stall.

The thief scurried back into and alley, wolfing down her prize. It was overripe and soft, but she didn't care. Her black hair was dirty and cut short, hanging around her ears like a boy. Intelligent, ruthlessly sharp eyes glared around the alley like blue torches. Around her neck hung an inexplicably fine necklace of a sharp, compass-like symbol.

A little scuffle to the side made her twitch and draw a skinny knife. From the shadows emerged a smirking boy. He was older than her by a few years. His hair was blond and hung unevenly in his chronically happy face, and he reminded her of a puppy.

"Georges, you should stop sneaking up on me." Jacqueline sighed and put away her knife.

"Ah, but you haven't killed me yet, little fox." The boy teased, rustling her hair. She was his little sister, in an adoptive sense. The first person to find her on the streets, he had been the one to train her how to be a thief. He was Robin Hood and they were his Merry Men.

"Maybe I will." She punctuated the false threat with a crunch to her apple. "Just to prove you wrong. And I will revive you so you can live as a ghost with the knowledge I beat you."

"I have nothing to worry about, then." Georges smirked. "Because you'll never beat me." He laughed at her expression and tugged her along. "Come, Jacqueline. The others are waiting at the pier."

"Why the pier?" They started walking, winding through the alleys of little coastal Bayonne. They knew every back alley, every secret pathway and loophole. They were the local band of thieves. Even if the local militia caught them, they probably wouldn't do much. Recently, though, a few parties of British Regulars had come patrolling and extra caution was needed.

"Léon wants to try fishing. He made his own fishing rod with nothing but string and a piece of wood, reel and all." Georges shook his head. "If he could get any money, he'd be the most innovative child in France."

"That's the point, though." Jacqueline tossed away the apple core and held up her hands dramatically. "We don't have any money!"

They both had a good laugh.

At the pier, their little gang came into view. There were five of them in all: Georges, the leader. Jacqueline had ascended to roughly the second-in-command. Léon, a boy of about five or six who had a mind of a child three times his age. René was Georges' girlfriend but she wasn't a terrible thief, either. Mainly she stuck around because of Georges. Finally there was François, who didn't like talking to them but stuck around because he had nowhere else to go.

Léon was sitting at the dock with his dirty pants rolled up, feet dangled over the edge. His makeshift fishing rod hung in the water, and he chattered happily at François.

"There you are." René commented as they approached. She grinned, and the world seemed to light up and reflect on her white teeth. Jacqueline occasionally wished she were as pretty as her. René was tall and slender, with dark hair like cocoa and green eyes that were competing to smile more than her lips. She was also the oldest of all of them, Georges included, with an approximate age of sixteen or seventeen.

"Jacqueline was just off for a bite." Georges sat next to her and took her hand. "I decided I should go fetch her so Léon can show off to everyone together."

"Fantastic!" The boy exclaimed, waving the fishing rod to make his point. "We can finally eat!"

"If you can catch something," Jacqueline muttered, sitting on his other side at the dock. The water smelled salty and stung freshly in their eyes. A massive ship was rocking to their right, making white waves and creaking. It was for the Regulars, and scheduled to depart that evening to take soldiers both British and French to the Colonies.

"I can too catch something!" Léon protested passionately. "Just you watch, Jacqueline, just you watch! We will be eating fresh fish tonight for the first time since…well, since a long time!"

"I'll believe it when I see it, _mon frère._" She stretched and laid back to nap.

Hours slowly ticked by. The sun crept to the horizon and grew angry and red. They went for a swim but grew bored even by that. Léon remained steadfastly determined that he would catch food for them, but it was becoming pretty clear that they would have to go beg it off some locals as per usual. It was getting dark anyway, and the fish would go and hide for the night. Just as Georges was standing to round them all up, Léon leapt to his feet.

"I've got one!" He laughed, bouncing up and down on his tiny feet. It was easy to forget he was so young. "In your stupid faces! Stupid stinky faces, I've got one!"

And just like that, he reeled up a foot-long silver fish. It flopped frantically on the wire, clearly perplexed at being caught in such a simple trap.

"I'll be damned." Jacqueline grinned. Léon took the fish triumphantly in his hand and stabbed it with his tiny knife.

"Now we eat!" They ran off, not bothering with side routes and rather running straight down the main street, whooping in victory and not looking where they were going.

Jacqueline collided suddenly with a wall of red. She yelled out a curse and stumbled back to see one of the redcoats sneering down at her. Léon had done the same and also fell back. He hung his head, timid in front of adults.

"Look what we have here, boys." The first man, the one Jacqueline had run into, said. "A bunch of thieves, I reckon."

"He caught that himself!" Jacqueline protested, pointing to the fish.

The man laughed. He had an ugly beard. "The brat can't even speak English! Uneducated little whelp, ain't she?" The other soldiers nodded in agreement. "I think we ought to lock the pair o' you up, just 'cause I don't like your tone."

Then Jacqueline did something she would regret for more or less the rest of her life—she hacked and snorted, and finally spat on the soldier's fine red coat.

The reaction was instant. The butt of his rifle came at her head, but missed by some miracle as Georges tackled her. From the ground she could see François and Léon making a break for it. René was fighting the three other redcoats, sloppily but getting the job done.

Ugly Beard threw Georges away and picked Jacqueline up by the scruff of her shirt. "You'll pay for that, you little—Agh!"

Her fist stung as Ugly Beard dropped her, a hand pressed to his eye. She ran back the way they had come, but reinforcements were jogging in. They didn't seem too pressed, but at the state of the Regulars behind her, they picked up the pace. Jacqueline doubled back, trying to catch sight of any of her friends but seeing no one. Only more soldiers. It was a sea of red. She dodged and ran, sliding between legs and scuttling along the pavement like an eel on land. But it seemed no matter where she ran there was a boot to kick her back or a bayonet to poke her away from freedom. Before long she was cornered back by the docks. A sharp, two-meter drop to thrashing waters waited. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to anger Ugly Beard.

In a snap decision between the prodding blades and the sea, Jacqueline took her chances and jumped backward in to the water. It was freezing cold from the old winter and so dirty she couldn't see, but willed herself to stay under. Her little lungs strained for a few seconds before she was forced to come up for air.

The redcoats had lost sight of her, but still patrolled the dock. There was no sign of any of the others. Towering above her was the redcoat ship. Jacqueline swam to it and clambered up. Her skinny arms strained from the effort, and her sweat mixed with the water from her hair. A porthole was open, and she wriggled inside the ship.

The room she ended up in was some kind of storage closet. Huge crates were stacked around netting and other aromatic barrels. There was a little space between two of the crates and the corner of the room, and she hopped inside the crevice.

Taking a breath, Jacqueline rubbed her eyes, which burned of salt and tears. She was soaking wet and freezing cold despite the humid summer air. What was she supposed to do now? Her group of thieves had been all she had in the world and now she had no idea where they were. Were they even alive? Would they even take her back after getting them into this mess? Panic was starting to set in as the adrenaline wore off.

An odd sound interrupted her mental hyperventilation. It was a sort of loud, clanking, shuddering noise. For a few seconds Jacqueline sat and frowned, raking her young brain to put a name to the noise. It suddenly hit her—they were pulling the anchor up. The panic came back colder and worse than before. They were pulling the anchor up!

Quick as a flash, she jumped out of her hiding hole and made a jump for the porthole she had come in. Halfway there, her foot caught in some of the netting and she face planted on the floor. She took out her knife and started sawing at it, wriggling her toes to get out. When she was finally free, she tried climbing back into the porthole and realized with panic of immeasurable levels that she couldn't fit back through. Try as she might, hold her breath and change positions and pull herself, there was no getting back out. It was pure adrenaline and being soaking wet that had even allowed it in the first place. And she couldn't very well go above deck and jump off from there—she was a stowaway now.

After lots of desperate wiggling and contorting, she managed to get her head out the porthole. The ship had already sailed far away. Bayonne was in the distance, being consumed by the summer haze even as she watched. Before too long, even that was gone.


	2. The Tortoise, the Fox, and the Wolf

_What a response! Thank you to __**Loc Dog**__ and __**i**__**ts meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee**__ for the first reviews!_

_W'P_

"_The turning point in the process of growing up is when you discover the core of strength within you that survives all hurt." -Max Lerner, __The Unfinished Country__, 1950_

_-o-_

"_Merde._"

Jacqueline pulled another splinter from her finger and flicked it away. She was trying to pull open the crate in front of her with just her hands, and it was working, albeit painfully. It had been maybe four days since she had accidentally stowed away on the ship, and she was getting hungry.

The board creaked as it was pulled back again. If she craned her neck she could peer inside and see what looked like food in the dark. When her fingers started to hurt she let go and rubbed them.

Her hiding place had actually been an extremely lucky find. No one had come in yet. Adding to the luck of the crate that she suspected contained turnips, the room seemed to be for miscellaneous storage, and someone had left a chamber pot as well. The worst part, it turned out, was the boredom. Most of the day she sat in her corner and tried to sleep, but there were only so many hours in a day one could sleep. Keeping herself entertained was evidently something she needed practice at. When she got bored in Bayonne she would just go and steal something or throw stones at passersby from the rooftops or talk to Léon about his next great invention—when he got the money.

A pang of homesickness struck her. She wondered if they were looking for her. Did they even miss her? They probably thought she was dead. She imagined Georges and René setting up a funeral with no body to bury. Poor Léon would cry his little eyes out. There was no telling what François would do. Tears burned her eyes and she let out a tiny sniffle.

Her stomach gave an impatient warble, bringing her back to the task at hand. With one last, painful effort she ripped away the board away and reached inside. When she pulled out the contents, she gave the vegetable an incredulous look. It was a potato. Misshapen and rusty red, about the size of her palm, it was a little dirty but didn't seem to be rotten. In fact, it was rather fresh and unblemished.

"I've had worse." Jacqueline whispered defiantly. She brushed some sprouts off the eyes and took a large bite.

_Approximately three months later._

"I am never eating you again." Jacqueline whispered the vow to the crate of potatoes, now almost empty. She held her knees up to her chest with her skinny street thief arms. "Never ever ever again."

She was _so sick_ of potatoes. It was literally all she had survived on. One of the barrels had, continuing her streak of luck, contained clean water and therefore relieved her of dehydration. That had only meant, however, that the occasional sailor or the chef would intrude and fetch some water. When this happened, she would gathered the netting up around her and duck down as far as she could until they left. Her state of filth had descended to levels she hadn't thought possible even after living on the streets for close to three years. Grimy and sore, she was ready to break a couple bones to escape out the porthole, if there had been anywhere to go but Open Ocean.

"_Land, ho!"_ The cry was loud enough to be heard far below deck where she sat. The rhythmic rocking of the ship went on for a couple more minutes before slowing down and finally, after so long, came to a gradual halt. The anchor splashed loudly outside.

Jacqueline hunkered down for a long time after that; even though every cell in her body screamed that she make a run for it. She didn't even know where she was, other than probably the Colonies. Probably.

A half an hour passed, and then an hour. Much of the movement stopped above, and she suspected the crew had left the ship to see the sights. She crept from her hiding place, and for the first time left the room. The underbelly of the vessel was dark and moody, smelling of ale and tobacco. No one was in sight. Like a giant rat, she scurried from below and onto the top deck. A pair of redcoats patrolled, and had just turned away from her when she emerged.

Without hesitating, Jacqueline ran to the edge of the boat and threw herself off into the water. It was cold, like the water in France, but this wasn't France. This was the Colonies. Maybe this was meant to happen, she thought to herself. Not God exactly. Fate? That sounds right. It was a miracle she was even alive! What a beautiful chance! What an opportunity for a new life!

For a long time she lazed in the water, smiling dumbly because it tasted sweeter than sugar.

After a while, she swam to shore. Shivering now but no longer dirtier than a stray cat, she wandered the streets. This was what she was trained for—it was her natural habitat. And it was time to test her skills in the New World.

Stepping timidly in front of a woman, she tugged pathetically at her skirt. Contrary to what Ugly Beard had thought, she actually could speak English. She flashed big, blue, "starving child" eyes up at the lady. "_Excusez-moi, madame. _What city is this?"

"Oh, you poor darling!" The woman exclaimed, but stepped back in clear distaste. She held a fine parasol and wore a cotton dress. Her accent was English and so heavy that Jacqueline had to strain to understand her. A fat coin purse hung at her belt, and she eyed it hungrily. "This is Boston, you dear sweetheart."

"I don't want to stay in the city." Jacqueline said, and this was actually true. Now that she was in America, she wanted to see if could make a living for herself other than stealing from other people, because every young thief knew it never lasted forever. "Where can I go outside of here?"

"Oh, you shouldn't wander alone, you muffin! But if you're _really_ set on it, try going north to the Davenport Homestead. There are some kindly souls there who'll surely take care o' you." The woman smiled and hurried away.

Jacqueline weighed her new coin purse in her hand and considered that. What was the fastest way to get there? By sea, likely. As much as she loathed the idea of ever getting on board a boat again, that was her ticket.

After much wandering in the huge, bustling, talkative, wonderful city, she bought a hot croissant from a French merchant she happened upon. It tasted like the best thing ever to pass her lips, and not just because her sole sustenance for the past three months had been potatoes. Buying things felt good, and even though the money was stolen, it was a stepping-stone.

More wandering along the docks, and she found what looked to be the harbormaster. He was a bearded and kindly looking man who was surveying complex maps with a compass.

"_Excusez-moi_," Jacqueline edged toward the stall. The harbormaster looked up and smiled at her.

"'ello there, young lady. What can I do for ya?" He set aside his compass and placed his hands palms-down on the table in the universal gesture for doing business.

"Are there any ships leaving for the Davenport Homestead soon?"

"Aye, that little crate there, the _Mariner_." The harbormaster stepped back to show her a small ship, almost a boat. A couple men were loading logs onto it. "Settin' sail in less'n an hour."

"Is there…" Jacqueline cleared her throat. "Is there a charge?"

The man laughed. His skin was deeply tanned. "Not fer a poor child like you, girl. Go on, hop on. I'll come with ya, if ya like, tell the boys to be nice."

"That's okay, _monsieur._" She said, already inching toward the boat. A last thought occurred to her. "How long is the voyage?"

"The Homestead's not too far. It'll be arrivin' this evenin'." He gave her a little wave. "Good luck, lass!"

"_Merci._" Jacqueline hurried onto the boat, thankful for the short journey. She ducked under two men carrying a huge log that was more like half a tree. Close to setting sail now, the deck bustled with activity. Feeling rather in the way, she dodged the scuffling feet, jumped to the nearest shroud and climbed. It was easy and fun, and she felt like a spider as she crawled vertically up to the crow's nest.

The sun was high in the sky, and shone down upon Boston and glittered on the water. Jacqueline leaned forward and smiled, feeling a great swelling in her heart. Perhaps things would not be so bad, after all.

_Later That Same Evening._

Night was falling on the Homestead as the _Mariner _docked. Jacqueline nearly skipped away, waving goodbye to the lookout she had made friends with. The coming dark didn't bother her at first, but as she ventured into the forest, it became consuming. With her little blade held in both hands defensively, she treaded carefully through the wood.

Something skittered on a nearby tree, and she jumped. Another something rustled in a bush and she sidestepped quickly away. Doubt began to trickle into her mind. What had she been thinking? She was a young girl in a foreign land with no experience surviving alone. This was madness. Just to make her evening worse, thunder cracked loudly overhead with a blinding flash. All at once, rain began to pour through the canopy like a tap had been turned on. It was angry, painful rain that came down with a vengeance. The droplets stung her skin where they hit.

A rock sticking up from the ground came from nowhere, and she went sprawling on her face. Mud and water soaked into her clothes no matter how fast she scrambled up. Drenched to the bone, she started off at a frightened jog. Leaves and low branches swiped at her face, disorienting her. She no longer knew where she was, or what direction the docks would be to go back to the _Mariner. _Itching tingles swept up her legs, like bugs were crawling on her.

Light flickered through the trees. A ray of hope. Jacqueline dashed forward, slipping in the new mud and tripping over knobby roots. The forest thinned and gave way to mossy shelves of rock. She climbed over them and continued running. Stood on the hill before her was a manor of brick and white paint. Lanterns on the porch were lit to give it an inviting look.

Huffing and bowed over, she caught her breath before knocking. "_Bonjour_? Is anyone home? Hello!"

There was silence for a moment. The door opened slightly to reveal a hunched old man. "Go away."

The door slammed shut. Jacqueline stood, blinking in shock, but knocked again. "_S'il vous plait, monsieur! _I have nowhere to go!"

Again the door opened. The man glared at her for a moment, clearly preparing to reject her again, when his eyes fell to her necklace. "Where did you get that?"

She weighed her odds. "I'll tell you if you let me in."

"Hm." He seemed to consider it. "Come on, then." He opened the door and she slipped inside.

It was warm and welcome on the threshold, but she felt out of place and dirty. Water dripped from her clothes onto the floor and runner. A walking stick jabbed her between the ribs, drawing her attention to her host. The old man was less hunched than he appeared and was more or less her height. Bright, youthful eyes glared from under a beige hat and dark skin.

"Now, answer my question. Where did you get that?" He tapped the necklace. "Do you know what it means?"

"I got it from my mother." Jacqueline said indignantly, placing a hand over it. "And no, I do not."

"Hm." The man rubbed some salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. "And who was your mother?"

"Her name was Arlette Sauvageot. My father was Arnaud Sauvageot. They are dead."

"Did you happen to see who killed them?"

"Yes. My mother was murdered in front of me and my father burned protecting us." Jacqueline had grown numb over the past two years. It no longer bothered her so much to speak of these things.

"And were these men wearing red crosses?" The old man asked. There was a knowing tone to his voice, like a detective investigating a line of inquiry.

She paused, and nodded. "_Oui._ They were. Why?" The pieces clicked. "Do you know who killed my parents?"

"Yes." He held up a hand. "Before you ask, I don't have names. But these men belong to a group of people called Templars. Your parents, well…it's a long story, one that's not well told on a doorstep." He gestured tiredly with his cane and led her down the hall. "Come and have a seat. I'll tell you."

The manor was less nice inside than the outside let on. Most of the furniture was covered in white sheets, and those were covered in dust. The floorboards creaked under their feet. The scent of neglect and disuse hung in the air like a cloud. The old man did not seem to notice this.

The foyer at the end of the hall was toasty with a fire, and Jacqueline almost jumped right in. "What's your name, girl?"

"Jacqueline." She responded, stretching out by the fire. "_Et toi?_"

"My name's Achilles, but if we're going to talk, you'll need to drop the French. I don't speak it well enough. How good is your English?" He sat heavily in a chair.

"Fairly good." Jacqueline muttered. "Well enough to understand any story you have."

"That should have to do. Now, let's begin…"

And Achilles began to speak. It started simple, with the fundamentals of the Templar and Assassin Orders. Then he told of Ezio Auditore, an Italian Master Assassin who had connected with some quasi-god spirits that told of an impending doom far in the future. The story became tangled and intricate, a web of allegiances and intrigue that stretched back hundreds, if not thousands of years. The speech stretched out into the deep of the night. Jacqueline hung on his every word, entranced by this underworld of mystery she had never could even dream she had a hand in.

"I want to fight against the Templars." Jacqueline said passionately, now sitting up against the hearth. "Can you train me to be an Assassin?"

"I'm afraid my training days are over," Achilles sighed, arching his back to pop a couple joints. He looked down at her crestfallen expression and gave a weary smile. "But…I suppose I can make an exception."

"Really?" Jacqueline gasped, but quieted down respectfully. "I mean, thank you, Achilles."

"We'll start tomorrow morning. You can have one of the spare rooms upstairs. And Jacqueline," The girl stopped and looked back at him. "I suggest you get your rest. We have a big day tomorrow."

_-o-_

Three years passed in a whirl. Time flew by as Achilles taught Jacqueline about the Assassins, art, language, mathematics, different cultures, and morals. They grew a steady, friendly relationship. She was ambitious and almost over-eager to learn, devouring every book he gave her and every lesson he taught her. The lessons' times were cut sometimes in half by her thirst for knowledge.

Moreover, she was trained to run, climb, ride on horseback, fight, and kill with precision. Her already nimble thief's skills were refined to razor edge. She especially enjoyed free-running and acrobatics, and learned to climb the trees on the Homestead in no time. The training, no matter how difficult it got or how relentless Achilles could be, was infinitely better than living with no idea when or if her next meal would come. To her, there was almost no better life she could imagine.

In a secret room below the manor, male Assassin robes hung on a straw dummy. Jacqueline wanted her own, and drew an unskilled design of one she wanted for herself. At the end of her training, Achilles left for a couple days. When he returned, he had the tailored robes for her.

"You're one of the youngest people I've ever trained, girl," He said one day, the wrapped package under one arm. "And, if I'm being frank, one of the most eager. Here," He handed her the robes. "And I got you trousers instead. If you want garters you can get them yourself. I have _some_ dignity."

"Thank you, Achilles." Jacqueline smiled and ran off to her room to change. She had made a point of designing it with lots of capes. One was long and from her shoulders, and other was a skirt that was long in the back. The top was pinned to her left on and angle, with brass buttons.

That evening, she slept in her new robes.

The morning after, she woke late, so late the sun was setting again. Her training had the sense that it was winding to a close, especially since Achilles didn't bother waking her with a cane to the ankle for sleeping in. Her hair had grown out in the years and she pinned it back with a few ties. A quick straightening of her capes and she trotted downstairs to see Achilles eating a simple dinner.

"Good morning, Achilles." She yawned and sat at the dining table.

"It's 'good evening' now." The old man flipped the page of a thick book that he was reading by candlelight.

"Did you have anything planned? I thought you would wake me up." She reached over to his plate and got her hand slapped away. "What time is it?"

"Get your own food! No, I don't have anything planned. It's too late, anyway. Your time training with me has almost come to an end, though you do not have to leave if you don't want to." Achilles glanced up at her from the book.

"I want to start hunting Templars." She said determinedly. "There must be some sort of conspiracy going on in a town as large as Boston."

Achilles rubbed his chin. "I don't think I want you storming the front lines quite yet. Remember you're still a young girl with only three years' training in you."

Jacqueline sighed and sat back in her chair. "I suppose…you're right. I only wish I…" She was interrupted by a knock at the door. "I'll get it."

Upon opening the door, she raised her eyebrows in surprise. A boy of about her age stood on the front porch. He was a Native, dressed in beige skins with feathers and a braided lock of hair. His skin was fairer, though, and she wondered why. He seemed just as surprised to see her.

"Hello," Jacqueline said, a little timid now. She was used to Achilles' company, and his only. Strangers coming to the door made her a little uneasy. "Can I help you?"

"Is there, uh, anyone else living here?" He asked, leaning to look around her and into the manor. He glanced at her necklace and opened his mouth to say something.

"One moment." And she closed the door in his face before he could. "Achilles, there's someone here and I think he's looking for you."

"Let me see." Achilles stood and hobbled over, leaning on his cane. He opened the door. "What?"

"Um, I...I was told you could train me." The boy said.

"No." Achilles slammed the door shut. A few seconds later, there was another knock on the door. "Go away!"

"I'm not leaving!"

"Achilles…" Jacqueline gave him a look. "Give him a chance. You gave me one."

"Exactly. I had one chance left in me and it was you." He limped away, waving a hand. She trotted after him.

"He sounds even more desperate than I did." She bargained. "What if I helped? I could teach him acrobatics or hand-to-hand combat."

"I'll think about it. For now, I suggest you go groom that horse of yours. She's not been fed today thanks to your late wakeup."

"I'll feed her tomorrow. I think it's going to rain, anyway." Jacqueline strode past him and walked up the stairs. "I'm going to sleep."

"Again?" He cracked her ankle with the cane on the way up. "You're getting sick, girl."

Sourly rubbing her foot, she hopped upstairs and went back to bed. Still drowsy, it was easy for her to simply pass out.

-o-

The next morning a loud knocking on the front door again woke Jacqueline. Cross now, she wrenched herself out of bed and pattered downstairs, her bare feet thumping rapidly on the stairs and her nightgown billowing behind her. The boy was at the door again. As she stalked forward to answer it, if only to tell him to go away, a yell from the upper floor stopped her.

"Don't answer it, Jacqueline!" Achilles called down. "He'll go away eventually."

"Can I tell him to go away?"

"Do you _want _to encourage him?"

A knock on the back door made her turn to look. Jacqueline sighed and turned back around to stalk up the stairs. Her mentor, however, had already beaten her there. He threw open the window to call out to the boy as the doorknob on the back door below jiggled again.

"I apologize if I have been unclear, or otherwise confused you with my words." He called down, where the boy stood on the back stoop. "It was never my intention to mislead. So let me try to clarify: _get the hell off my land!"_

Jacqueline rolled her eyes with a scoff, but was smiling. "That was harsh, _monsieur._"

"I'm coming up!" The boy said loudly, as though to warn them.

"He must be simple to not take a hint." Achilles grumbled. His cane pushed into the small of her back, ushering her along. "Now go practice your fencing."

"Not a chance. I want to see how you handle this." Jacqueline crossed her arms and followed him back to the room that led to the balcony. It was a study, musty and smelling pleasantly of books.

On cue, the door rattled in its frame. "Just hear me out. What are you so afraid of?"

Achilles got that look in his eye, and Jacqueline instinctively stepped back. He threw open the door, and the boy stumbled back. "Afraid?" The old man asked incredulously, angrily. "You think I'm afraid of anything, least of all a self-important little scab like you?" He hooked his cane under a heel and sent the boy toppling over. Stepping over him, Achilles placed the handle at his throat. Jacqueline peeked around the corner, and the boy glanced at her. She shook her head in warning, and he put up his hands in surrender.

"Oh, you might dream of being a hero," Achilles went on threateningly. "Of riding to rescues, of saving the world. But stay this course, and the only thing you're gonna be is _dead._" He stepped back over him and hobbled back toward where Jacqueline stood. "The world's moved on, boy," He muttered over his shoulder. "Best you do, too."

After the door closed, they could hear the boy yell after them. "I _will not _leave, do you hear me? I'm never leaving."


	3. A Student Becomes a Class

_Just to clarify, I'm pretty sure I wrote this all out so Jacqueline and Connor are the same age. She was trained earlier but they're both about 15 or 16 at the time, or at least that's how I mathed it out when playing. If it hurts your brain don't think about it, that's what I do. Remember to drop a review down there! _

_W'P_

"_There's nothing strange about an axe with bloodstains in the barn, there's always some killing you got to do around the farm." –"Murder in the Red Barn," Tom Waits_

_-o-_

That afternoon it started to rain, and it didn't get better as the day progressed. In fact, it got worse and turned into a full thunderstorm. Jacqueline sat in her room and listened to the thunder explode in the sky. It reminded her of the day she came to Achilles. Rain lashed the glass of the window and made the forest beyond a blur of green and brown. A bolt of lightning struck and illuminated the world in a sharp flash of light. Her room was dark but for the fireplace, and the flickering flames cast wavering shadows across the room. It was silent in the manor. Achilles was probably awake, but he usually stayed downstairs at night. She wondered what he thought about, staring into the fire. What past wrongs or regrets he reminisced upon when she wasn't there.

A quiet sense of foreboding sent a cold shiver up and down her spine. She looked over her shoulder at the room. It was empty but for her.

Sighing, she looked back into the fire. It was slowly dying, and she tossed a log in. Sparks coughed up from the embers and swirled into the chimney. Another crack of thunder went out, loud and booming like dynamite. It sounded like the lightning had struck fairly close to the house.

The sense of apprehension came back, and this time she didn't ignore it. Standing, she told herself some excuse about wanting to get a drink and headed downstairs. Even so, she stayed dressed in her robes and even grabbed her weapons belt from the bedside table. Achilles was by the hearth as she had predicted, sitting quietly by himself. She crept past, not wanting to disturb him, and to the back door.

She just needed to make sure her fears were unfounded. Rain sprinkled in when she opened the door, a fine mist. Looking to the right, she saw the stables and the horses inside. If she squinted she could just make out a dark lump in the empty stable, and she suspected the boy had hunkered down for the night.

As she was closing the door, a waver of motion caught her eye. Two more figures were down by the stables, standing under the awning. Even as she watched, her hand went to her belt where her sword waited. The boy stood and approached the two people. Apparently he hadn't been sleeping, after all.

Jacqueline put her hood up against the rain and started off at a jog. The figures were probably Regulars or poachers, and wolves travelled in packs. She didn't need him stirring up trouble. Before she could reach them, they had set into fighting stances. The men who she could now see were poachers put up their fists, but the boy fought back with a tomahawk and to the death. The second man fell as she reached him.

Sighing heavily, she nudged the one body with her boot and folded her arms. The look she gave the boy was a mildly chastising one.

"What was I supposed to do?" He asked.

Jacqueline drew her sword with a gleam and ring of metal. More men were coming around from the stables, drawing their own weapons as they took in the bloody scene.

She only twirled her sword in a figure eight. The men were circling in. She continued to spin her sword, making a show of it and even fumbling on purpose once to make them arrogant. All at once she flung it into the chest of the nearest poacher, who crumpled in a heap without even a scream.

That was the start of it. The rest of them attacked, jabbing with their bayonets and swinging blades. It turned out the boy was proficient with that tomahawk of his, dual wielding with a flint dagger. Jacqueline was having an absolute blast, cartwheeling out of the circle and flipping back to kick a man's head back with enough force that it promptly snapped. A gunshot went off with a deafening bang, and she wondered if Achilles was watching them. She jumped forward at one of them, grabbing his shoulders, and hurled him over her head as she fell into a crouch where he had been standing. Once on the ground she dealt a sharp kick to his temple.

The fight wound to a halt, and the boy stalked up to one of the injured. "Why are you here?" He demanded with surprising force. "What do you want?"

"Best ask the bossman." The poacher coughed out, a little blood spattering his chin.

Stars flashed behind Jacqueline's eyes, and quite suddenly she was facedown in mud with a burning agony at the back of her head. There was some scuffling ahead and behind. Getting enough strength to lift her head, she was able to see two relatively uninjured men standing with their backs to the manor. A towering, muscular giant of a man was holding a club and looming over the Native boy.

She looked behind at the sound of quiet, fast footsteps in time to see Achilles assassinate first one, then the other of the two men, and finally the behemoth lumberjack bloke, just like that.

"Thank you." The boy said, standing. Achilles hobbled over the Jacqueline and helped her up. The world tilted around on its axis in her eyes, and there was something hot on her neck.

"Clean this up," He told the boy over his shoulder, helping Jacqueline along. "Then…I suppose we should talk."

As they walked away and he began dragging the bodies away, Jacqueline put a hand to her head. "That big guy hit me on the back of the head." She grumbled.

"I'll get you cleaned up inside once we're out of this blasted rain." Achilles sighed.

Once inside the manor, Jacqueline took off her larger cape and tossed it onto a hanger. She wobbled into the kitchen and wet a cloth to dab away the blood that was congealing in her hair. Achilles retrieved some bandages and wrapped them around her head, tight to the point of pain.

"Now don't take these off, no matter how it itches." Achilles slapped her hand when she tried scratching.

"Ah!" Jacqueline whipped her hand away. "Fine! It still hurts…I might have a concussion."

"You're fine. It's called getting into an _actual_ fight, girl." He hobbled off toward the fire he had been sitting at earlier. Jacqueline followed, shedding the muddy, soaking wet outer layer of her robes and folding them. "I expect, with the way you're going, this certainly won't be your last. You handled yourself well out there."

"_Merci_…The last time I was in a fight, I stowed away on a British ship." She said and sat on the floor.

"That must have been some fight." Achilles chuckled drily. He took his seat from earlier and shook some water from his hat.

"_Non, _I kind of just ran away." She shrugged sheepishly. "It is how I ended up on the ship. For three months, all I ate was raw potato."

"Well, that explains why you don't eat them around here." He smirked.

The opening of the door made them both stop and wait. A few seconds later the boy walked in. He looked between them, and sat in the empty chair. It shattered under him, cracking into its separate pieces and depositing him on the floor. Jacqueline smiled. There was a reason she sat on the floor.

"Sorry." The boy said with sheepishness to match Jacqueline's.

"Not your fault." Achilles waved a hand. "The whole place is ready to come apart. Goddamn miracle it hasn't already. If you're going to blame anyone, blame her," He prodded Jacqueline's shoulder. "For not helping me get this place in working order. Anyway, who are you?"

"My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton." He said, standing awkwardly.

"Right. Well, I'm not even going to try and pronounce that. Now tell me why you're here."

Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled a piece of parchment from his belt and handed it to Achilles. It seemed to be some sort of map, at least from what Jacqueline could see from underneath. On it was the Assassin insignia. "I was told to seek this symbol."

"Do you even know what that symbol represents, or what it is you're asking for?" Achilles was giving him the same look that he had given Jacqueline when she had come to him.

"…No." Ratonhnhaké:ton admitted.

"And yet, here you are."

"The spirit said that-that I…"

Achilles held up a hand to stop him. "These "spirits" of yours have been harassing the Assassins for centuries, ever since Ezio uncorked the bottle. Ah, but you don't even know what an Assassin is, do you?" Silence. "Best settle in, then. I've got a story to tell, and it's going to take a while to get it all out."

Jacqueline stretched and yawned, curling into a more comfortable position. Ratonhnhaké:ton retrieved a chair from the dining table and sat in for the same tale that had been told to her. The weary, soft-spoken voice of Achilles and the crackling of the fire lulled her into a doze. The story wove around her like a blanket, little holes being punctured whenever Ratonhnhaké:ton asked a question or made a remark. For hours Achilles spoke of the Assassins and Templars and the Ones Who Came Before, as he had done with her.

Eventually, the night began to wane. The scraping of chairs stirred her, and she sleepily followed them as they walked to the training room. "Careful," Achilles whispered. "It wasn't a joke when I said this place was coming apart."

"So why don't you fix it?" Ratonhnaké:ton asked.

"What's the point? Besides, I don't have the materials for the job."

"So buy them."

Achilles laughed. "Look at me. Look at her," He tapped Jacqueline's leg with his cane between steps. "You think we can just march into some store, purse full of pounds, and go shopping?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"So naïve…" He sighed back. Jacqueline reached up and pulled down the candlestick, leaning on the wall as they walked ahead. A section of the wall popped out and became a door they could swing open. "This way."

The basement was mild and dim. There were signs of her training lying around, a few knives here and there, an arrow shot dead center at the straw dummy's head. She had been careful about that one, very careful not to hit the fine robes that hung there. Ratonhnhaké:ton reverently stepped up to them, brushing a hand over the shoulder. He knelt and picked up a boot, and got a smack from Achilles' cane.

"You think you can just walk in here, throw those on, and call yourself an Assassin?" He accused.

"I did not—I would never presume…"

"It's all right. I know they've a certain…allure." Achilles disjointedly circled him, observing the boy appraisingly. "Very well. I'll train you. Then we'll know if you've the right to wear those robes."

"Thank you, um…"

"Name's Achilles." The old man tapped his bad ankle with his cane and then gestured. "That's Jacqueline. Jacqueline!"

She looked over to them, having not exactly paying attention. She was feeling faint, and had been leaning on the table. "_Oui._"

"Introduce yourself. I thought I taught you manners, girl. And move that away from the wall."

"Old habits die hard." Jacqueline pushed herself from the table as they approached and pointed to herself. "I'm Jacqueline."

"I am Ratonhnhaké:ton."

"I heard. Good to meet you." She reached up and pulled away a patched together sheet of wooden two-by-fours that was leaning against the wall. She tossed it away, almost falling with it. Underneath were paintings of the various Templar leaders, with Haytham, the Grand Master, at the top of it all.

"What do the Templars want?" His question was directed at Achilles.

"What they've always wanted—control. They see an opportunity in the Colonies. A chance for new beginnings, unfettered by the chaos of the past. This is why they back the British. Here they have a chance to illustrate the merits of their beliefs, a people in service to the principles of order, and structure."

"I have seen what is to come if they succeed," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "They have to die, don't they? All of them. Even my father."

"Especially your father. He's the one holding the whole thing together." Achilles turned to gaze up at the portrait of Haytham.

"Haytham Kenway...is your father?" Jacqueline tore her eyes away from the picture to stare at Ratonhnhaké:ton. That would explain his fairer skin.

"Yes," He answered evenly. "But I am _nothing _like him."

"I think," Achilles interrupted. "It's time for bed. Jacqueline, show him to his room. And if you can still sleep, do so; I won't be letting up on you just because you got a bump to the head."

"I can always sleep," She touched her new bandage. "Especially with this." She waited until they were all out of the basement before closing the secret door. "Good night, Achilles."

"Good night."

"This way, ah…" Jacqueline paused. It felt rude not to call him by name but even more rude to try and be unable to pronounce it.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton." He said for the third time, following her up the stairs.

"Sorry. Write it out for me some day, I'll learn to pronounce it." She put a hand to her head and leaned on the wall as they reached the second floor. The world tilted again, wavering and darkening on the edges.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She waved him off and continued gingerly down the hall. They stopped at his new room, which was bare but for a bed no one had slept in for ages; certainly long before she ever got there. She leaned on the doorframe. "Here you are. I'm down the hall there if you need anything." She pointed to her room on the other side of the second floor.

"Thank you, Jacqueline." He said, and sounded genuine.

"It's no trouble. Get some rest. Achilles is going to run you into the ground tomorrow." Jacqueline smiled tiredly and pushed off the frame to walk back to her room.

_-o- _

The winter morning was bright. The newly fallen snow dulled the sharp, leafless branches of the dark trees. Everything was white and soft. Achilles waited in the driver's seat of the carriage outside the manor, hunched down with his hat pulled over his eyes as he waited. Footsteps crunched around him as Jacqueline made sure the horses were in good shape. She had abandoned her summer robes for ones with more fur, both inside and around the hems and hood. The garters and skirt had stayed, though. She liked the mobility they provided. Her hair had grown very long in the past several years, so to mark her turning seventeen, she had cut it back to her shoulders.

"Where is that boy?" Achilles grumbled. "He sleeps more than you."

"If you didn't go on working until the sun set, maybe he wouldn't sleep until noon." Jacqueline countered smartly, getting a smack to the shoulder from the walking stick. At this point it was more like a friendly pat than a strike. "Would you like me to go wake him up?"

He sighed, and a plume of fog drifted from under the brim of his old hat. "No, no. Leave him. He'll have to wake up sometime."

"You see, you _say _that…" She smiled. Her gloved hands coaxed up the hoof of her speckled mare, and she checked for pebbles. "The horses look in good shape. If he doesn't join us in a few minutes I'm waking him up."

Even as she said it, the door of the manor opened and Ratonhnhaké:ton walked out, looking groggy. He gave them a little wave as he walked down the front steps.

"Speak of the devil," Jacqueline straightened up and patted the mare's side. "We were getting ready to storm in there and drag you out kicking and screaming."

"Not today, at least," Connor smirked and walked up to Achilles.

"Good morning." The old man greeted.

"To you as well. You going on a trip?"

"I've decided to do something about the house, and you're going to help me. Get in." He tapped the carriage with his cane.

Jacqueline, thrilled at visiting a city after so long in the countryside, eagerly climbed in. Ratonhnhaké:ton joined her a moment later. Once the door closed, the reins snapped outside, and the carriage lurched off.

"Have you ever been to the city?" Jacqueline asked him, brushing back her hood. Snow sprinkled down on the seat.

"No. Not one so large as Boston. My village was of average size, though."

She grinned in anticipation. "Oh, are you in for a treat."


	4. A Visit to la Belle Ville

"_Bad kids, all my friends are bad kids, product-of-no-dad kids, kids like you and me. Bad kids, ain't no college grad kids, livin' out on the skids, kids like you and me." –Black Lips, "Bad Kids"_

_-o-_

When they arrived in Boston, Jacqueline burst out of the carriage and stretched her legs happily. It was snowing now, a little dusting down on the three of them. Crowds bustled in the streets. The smell of something cooking drifted tantalizingly through the buildings. Soldiers marched, looking bored, in perfect unison down the sides of the street, avoiding a cart full of hay as it clattered past. Laughing children barreled through them, getting some yells of annoyance from the stoic redcoats.

"Oh, _la belle ville!_" Jacqueline bounced up and down and looked about ready to run off, but Achilles grabbed her arm.

"Don't go abandoning us right now, girl," He said. "You'll have plenty of time for that later."

Ratonhnhaké:ton, meanwhile, was utterly fascinated by his new surroundings. A woman in a simple cotton dress and parasol walked past, and he watched her as though she were wearing a fish on her head. His actions got a smack from Achilles' cane.

"Don't stare." He chastised.

Ratonhnhake:ton cast his eyes down. "Sorry."

Achilles jerked his head and started walking. "Come on."

That wasn't going to stop them, though, and the teenagers followed him with increasing restlessness. "This place is incredible. The people, the sounds, the smells. I could walk these streets for days and know not even half its wonders."

"I thought the same as you, upon a time. Now I much prefer the quiet of the countryside." Achilles smiled wistfully.

"_Non, non!_" Jacqueline exclaimed, being mostly ignored. "Oh, what a crime to stay away from the city for so long!"

"But there is so much life here," Ratonhnhaké:ton went on. "So many opportunities."

"For a few, my boy. For a few." Achilles sighed, and came to a halt at a small crossroads. At the end of the intersecting road was a busy market and the townhouse. "There's a store close to here. Buy what's on this list." Here he handed over a folded piece of paper. "Tell them where the carriage is, and they'll see that it's loaded. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Good!" He tossed a large coin purse to Jacqueline, who caught it with a devilish smile. "You're also going to need a new name. Your skin is fair enough that you might pass for one with Spanish or Italian blood. Better to be thought a Spaniard than a Native…and both are better still than I."

"That is not true."

"What _true _and what _is _aren't always the same."

"What would you call me, then?"

Achilles paused. "…Connor. Yes. That will be your name. All right, then, off you go." He pushed the cane into his back to usher him along.

"Finally." Jacqueline jogged ahead a few paces. "Come on, let's race!"

Without waiting for his answer, she took off. Her boots crunched in the dirty snow, throwing it up in her wake. Behind her, she could hear Connor following. It felt good to burn the pent-up energy of anticipation through exercise. A couple merchants yelled in irritation as she dove straight through their stalls, jumping and weaving through the marketplace.

Before she could even make it down the next branching alley, she felt a tap on her shoulder and glanced back to see a smug Connor running right at her heels. She laughed and jogged to a halt, shaking her head.

"Damn it, Ra—Connor." She corrected herself, and waved a hand. "That isn't fair."

"Would you like a head start next time?"

"Oh, shut up." She gave him a one-handed shove and turned to the building they were standing at. "Let's try the rooftops this time."

Latching onto a snowy windowsill, she pulled herself up onto the angled roof. It was also slippery with soft snow, but she had no trouble balancing on the apex of the building. Connor joined her seconds later, looking out over the marketplace with her.

"Have you been to Boston before?" He asked.

"Not Boston, no," Jacqueline walked down the roof, her feet toe to heel and arms out, like she actually needed to do that to balance. "I lived in a city back in France. It's my…how should I put it? Natural habitat."

"The city is wonderful." Connor slid down the side, kicking up snow and landing squarely on a protruding window alcove. "Why would Achilles ever want to leave a place like this?"

"He has his reasons. For instance, did you know he had a family once?"

"No. Who were they?"

"A wife and son. I think they died of fever, or a wolf attack, or something terribly tragic like that." Jacqueline tipped forward to walk along the same path on her hands. "Their graves are on the manor's land. Don't you wonder why Achilles chose the name Connor?"

There was a short pause as he figured it out. "So the other Connor was—"

"_Oui. _It's actually very touching."

She slowly lowered herself forward by the feet, making an arch for a moment, belly up, before standing with her arms in the air. That pose was kept for a few seconds, and she then repeated the routine. Her movements were purposeful and steady. They remained in the peaceful winter air, saying nothing. Connor looked out over the city, still sitting on the window alcove with her legs crossed contentedly. A dog barked below. Smoke rose from a nearby chimney to make plumes of foggy smoke that disintegrated in the white sky.

Jacqueline stopped her acrobatics and sighed. Her breath made a smaller version of the chimney's excretions. "Well, let's get on with this shopping business. I want to spend time in the city without having to worry about it."

She jumped and slid down the roof, leaping from the end to the next building over. It was slanted as well, so they leapt from window to window. They turned right and went that way until Jacqueline stopped on the roof to the shop. She peered over the edge. After judging the distance and psyching up to it, she jumped down to roll onto the overhang, and from there hopped to the pavement.

Connor followed her path and brushed some snow off his sleeve. She gestured for him to go first, and he walked into the shop and out of the cold, sharp city winter. A small fire crackled in the hearth. No one was at the counter, so they wandered quietly in the empty shop. Jacqueline toyed amusedly with a hanging raccoon skin.

"You lost?" The shop owner emerged from the back room. He was overweight with thinning hair and messy stubble.

There was a pause. Jacqueline nudged Connor forward. He seemed to remember why they were there in the first place, and set Achilles' list on the counter. "I need the items on this list."

The owner didn't look at it. "Will you being paying in coin, or in trade?"

Jacqueline tossed the coin purse so it landed between them with a resounding, heavy jingle. His small eyes lit up with unconcealed greed. He tipped the coins out into a pile, pushed it forward slightly, and looked at the list.

"Some of these things I have, some I don't," He decided, and began picking out the coins for payment. "Lumber is hard to come by since my supplier up and vanished. I have the tools and pitch, though. Nails, too. Where do you want this delivered?"

"Our wagon is near the statehouse." Connor scraped the rest of the coins into the pouch.

"That was actually easy," Jacqueline commented once they were outside again. "I don't usually buy…what the hell?"

The city had undergone a radical change while they were in the shop. Citizens ran down the street in the direction of the market. They were yelling obscenities that sounded vaguely anti-British. A few men were even brawling with some redcoats. Connor and Jacqueline took in their surroundings, and started off toward the market. Occasionally someone would shove past them or give them an angry look before continuing in the same direction.

"We need to find Achilles." Jacqueline raised her voice over the yelling of the market crowd. Connor nodded in agreement. They shouldered their way through the shifting, dangerous tussle until they found a familiar hunched figure, standing like the eye of the storm.

"What happened?" Connor asked.

"That's what we're going to find out. Come on." Achilles led them around the market stalls, limping quickly.

The scene was in dangerous and unstable, but it hadn't quite descended into total chaos yet. It had the feeling of a powder keg that was ready to go off at any moment. All it needed was a spark. Redcoats were standing in a defensive firing line, facing the boiling crowd that threatening to surge over. One soldier stood up on the steps, and was trying his best to calm the angry citizens.

"I say again, disperse!" He cried, hands out in what was supposed to be a calming manner. "Congregating in this manner is forbidden!"

"Oi! Why don't you go back to England?" Someone shouted over the babble.

"Nothing good can come of this chaos! Return to you homes, and all will be forgiven."

"Never!"

"Not until you've answered for your crimes!"

The poor fellow's attempts to stop them had only made things worse. Achilles placed a hand on Connor's shoulder and pointed with his cane to the townhouse. "Look."

Haytham was standing up above the rabble-rousers, speaking with another man. "Is that…my father?"

"Yes, which means trouble is sure to follow." Achilles kept his voice low, but it was unnecessary. "I need you to tail his accomplice. This crowd is a powder keg—we can't allow him to light the fuse."

"But…"

"But nothing! Do as I say and go. Both of you." He nodded as the accomplice walked away from Haytham and down a shadowed side street.

They obediently went after him, wandering a little, but still clearly following. People shoved past them as they rushed to join the growing crowd. The man walked down the street, not noticing them even as he turned a corner. Jacqueline jogged down to the alley he had entered and peeked around the corner. The man had stopped, and was facing the way he had come.

"Whoa, stop!" Jacqueline snatched Connor's hand before he could go around the corner, but it was too late. Only his foot went around the edge of the building, but it was enough. The man made a noise of suspicion. Footsteps crunched closer as he came to investigate.

"Put your hands on my waist." Jacqueline hissed.

"_What?_" Connor asked incredulously.

"Just do it. Quickly!" She placed her cheek on his shoulder and her arms around his neck. Watching through half-lidded eyes, she observed their quarry come around the corner. He looked around, frowning. His gaze slid right over them, not lingering for even a second. Apparently finding nothing or no one out of the ordinary, he turned back around and continued on his path.

"Is he gone?" She whispered.

Connor moved slightly to look. "Yes."

"Good. Let's go." Jacqueline tore away from him and the chase was back on.

The man's path cut across a small courtyard. He walked with single-minded purpose toward the far end, where a long ladder was set up against the building. He climbed up, and the hunters only followed when he was on the rooftop. Connor peered up, having gone first. He waited a moment, then darted up and waved Jacqueline up as he went. They pressed against the chimney when the man stopped and turned again. A moment later the footsteps continued. The man walked to the corner of the building. It looked over the townhouse from behind the crowd, so they had their backs to him for the most part.

"We have to stop him." Connor muttered. The man raised his rifle, and he darted out from cover.

"Connor! Ah, _merde…_" Jacqueline muttered, and watched as he leapt up and slammed his tomahawk into the man's back.

"Your plan in foiled." Connor had the man by the lapel, right in his face. The man coughed something she couldn't hear, and Connor looked over his shoulder.

Another man was on a rooftop behind them and across the street, standing calm and uninhibited with a flintlock pistol in his hand. Jacqueline squinted, and realised whom it was: Charles Lee. Before she could even think about drawing her bow, he shot the pistol with a massive _bang_. She could only watch in horror as, below by the townhouse, the redcoats opened fire on the pedestrians gathered below. She saw Haytham tap a Regular and point up to Connor, who was also frozen on the corner of the building.

"Connor, come on!" Jacqueline ran from cover and grabbed his hand. "Come on! _Allons-y! Allez, allez, allons-y!_"

The powder keg had erupted. Regulars swarmed to the rooftops to catch up with the fugitives. Gunshots exploded all around them, from below and above. Flashbacks of her last moments on French soil hit her like physical strikes. But they kept running, jumping and sprinting and climbing as far from the townhouse as they could. Eventually, their path led them to the wharf. There was a moment of scrabbling panic as they turned around and went the other way, but the marching of Regulars was deafening from all streets.

At the last second, Connor jumped into a hay bale they were stand next to, promptly dragging Jacqueline with him.

Sounds from the outside world were muffled in the damp hay. Regulars yelled things to other Regulars, and the footsteps continued swarming around their hiding place for a good while. It probably wasn't that long—it felt like hours. Eventually, the clanking of guns and boots trickled away, and they were left alone in the wet, cold, sound-consuming hay. Jacqueline let out a breath of relief and pressed her hands to her cheeks.

"_Oh_ _mon dieu,_" She laughed breathlessly. "How are we alive? I think we're dead."

Another chuckle of relief came from elsewhere in the hay, and she shifted through to see Connor lying back, his fingers pressed to his eyes. For a few minutes, they just sat and reveled in the miracle of not being dead. After a while, they decided it was safe to come out.

Jacqueline picked hay from her clothes, making a noise through her teeth: _ch. _"I'll be finding this everywhere now."

"We need to find Achilles." Connor stretched—he had been sitting against the cramped side of the hay cart.

"Damn, he could be anywhere by now. Where do we go?" They started walking, but not in any particular direction. Connor shrugged. Jacqueline shook her head, and put up her hood. "Fair enough."


	5. Freefall

"_When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap." -Cynthia Heimel_

_-O-_

Connor looked ready to breathe fire.

After being left to their own devices in Boston, he and Jacqueline had run into an acquaintance of Achilles', a man named Samuel Adams. He had shown them around the freezing city, which now hungered for their blood, and taught them to lower their notoriety. Hours of searching for wanted posters was the worst part, with freezing fingers and noses, and adrenaline being their only fuel against the redcoats that now seemed to swarm the city and make up half its population. Bribing town criers and printing presses was easier. Navigating through stinking, wet, rat-infested tunnels under the city had been the least fun Jacqueline had had all week.

Dealing with Samuel had been a pain her arse as well. She had no problem with the fellow, though he seemed somewhat arrogant and a little condescending toward them. Connor was another matter entirely. She had seen that he had no love toward white men, and she wondered where that stemmed from. It got to the point where at first, he refused to shake Samuel's hand. Although, being Native American, she could see even in their short time in the city a small part of what he had to deal with. An acquaintance of Samuel's had accidentally called him "it."

But now, incognito and basically cleared of all charges, they had returned by boat to the Davenport Homestead. It had been a few days since the massacre they'd gotten tangled in, and Connor was seething.

"Listen, Ratonhnhaké:ton, before you go storming in, maybe you should take a minute to cool down…" Jacqueline trotted to keep up with his irritated pace.

"Why should I?" He asked. His stride didn't even slow.

"I'm sure Achilles' heart was in the right place." She beseeched.

The door to the manor flung open, and she closed it behind them as Connor went on ahead. He checked each room before coming to the last, the sitting room. Achilles was sitting straight up in a chair, waiting for them. A wooden box was on the table next to him. "Welcome back!"

"You left us in Boston!" Connor growled.

"The training we've done here is all well and good, but experience is a better teacher by far." Achilles said sagely.

"And what of my father?"

"Into the wind, I'm afraid."

"We have to find him!" Connor's tone was so venomous that Jacqueline was almost afraid to be near him, like a hot stove would radiate heat.

"And we will. _After _the house has been repaired."

"But he's out there, planning who knows what!"

"And what would you do when you found him?" The old man asked with a little of his old impatience in his voice. "_If _you found him? You're a boy with a couple years of training. He's a man, full grown, who's spent decades honing his skills. If you're going to stand a chance against the Templars, you're going to need these."

Achilles held up the box from the table. Connor glared at it before snatching it away. When he opened it, all semblance of aggravation was gone like a bad smell. Inside, lying in soft red satin, were two bracers that contained hidden blades. They were finely crafted, with the Assassin symbol emblazoned on the out-facing side of each.

"Go on, before I change my mind." Achilles waved a hand to Connor, and he couldn't put them on fast enough. Jacqueline helped him, pushing back his sleeves and tightening the admittedly complicated straps. It was a rite of passage of sorts into the Brotherhood, one that she had already undergone as evident by her own bracers.

Once they were on, Connor held out his arms at angles to his body, palms out, to model the new addition to his arsenal. Achilles gave a small nod of approval.

A banging on the window interrupted their mini ritual. A man was there, slamming his fist on the glass. "Help! _Help!_" Connor walked outside to meet him, Jacqueline not far behind. "You sir, please, help. He's going to die!"

Without any explanation he ran off, and Connor with him. They seemed to be heading toward the river. Torn, Jacqueline hopped back in the house. "Well?" Achilles asked.

"I think they're going to the river." She said. "But I don't know."

"Get after them, then!" He waved his walking stick to make a point. Jacqueline rolled her eyes, but ran out of the house. Connor and the man had made a good swath through the deep snow, but they were way ahead of her. Beavers scattered from the trail as she tore by. Snow sprinkled on her from the tree branches when wind kicked up. The sound of the river rushing was like a flock of birds taking flight. As she got closer, she could hear faint wails of panic and uneven splashes. Bursting from the line of trees, she caught a glimpse of Connor hauling arse down the river's shore, through fallen trees and over slippery rocks a few feet into the water. Floating downstream a little ahead of him was a man clinging desperately to a log, holding on for dear life.

The man from earlier was jogging after Connor, and Jacqueline caught up to him. "What's going on?" She asked loudly over the rushing water.

"Yer friend there's saving Terry from drownin'!" He cried back, pointing. He had an atrocious Scottish accent.

Even as they watched, Terry's log got caught on some brambles at the end of the river, and Connor dove into the water as he slipped off and into the current. Jacqueline and the man ran to rendezvous with them, and reached shore in time to help Connor drag Terry onto dry land. The former fell back with an exhausted gasp, soaking to the bone. Jacqueline knelt by him and helped him to his feet.

Terry coughed up an absurd amount of water onto the snow, unable even to speak. "What this nob-end's tryin' to say is, he's forever in your debt, sir." The other man said gratefully.

"Who you callin' a nob-end?" Terry managed to get out, waving his arms dazedly above him. He also had a strong accent.

"You, 'cause you _are _one."

"What were you doing on those logs?" Connor asked, getting his breath back.

"One of the danger's o' lumbering. We got a camp set up a few rods off o' here, as we're cuttin' timber. We're hoping to open a mill in the area."

"There's a good place not far from the manor on the hill where we're staying." Connor pointed in a general direction.

"Ha, I like you already. We'll have a look." The man tapped Terry to get his attention, now standing and wiping water from his rust-coloured beard, and they went off up the trail.

Jacqueline gave Connor's arm a harmless smack as they set of toward the manor. "Next time, try not to go running off."

He smirked and gave her a little push back. They wound their way up to the manor, and it seemed that the lumberjacks were more industrious than first glance. By the time they reached the hill, Achilles was standing outside, observing the work of their new neighbors. Logs were being sawed, nails hammered in, short yells were being snapped to warn others of wood being moved.

"I'll miss the peace and quiet, but we can certainly use the wood." Achilles sighed.

"The manor needs a lot of work." Connor agreed.

"That and other things," The old man said cryptically. "Both of you, meet me by the small shack by the shore when you have time. There's something else you need to see."

"Which would be?" Jacqueline asked.

"An…asset." He answered simply, already hobbling away.

-o-

Connor and Jacqueline looked over the edge of the cliff and at the water below. The wreck of a ship was floating in the bay. The cliff was carved away in such a manner that where they were standing, at the very top, was the furthest point out. It curved inward from there, leaving only deep water below. On the opposite shore, a small shack sat among the trees, and a gangplank led to an old wharf that may have once docked the wrecked ship.

"He doesn't honestly expect us to go down there. Does he?" Jacqueline asked the question without expecting an answer.

"I think he does…" Connor muttered.

"How are we supposed to get down?"

"We could go the long way." He pointed out the long, far curve of land around the bay. "That is probably the only way to go."

Jacqueline felt a hand on her shoulder tauntingly push her forward, and she instinctively flinched away from the sharp, long fall that waited. Looking to the grinning Connor, she did the same, a small push that was just a little more forceful. He also started, stepping away. The dare game went on for a few minutes, each of them pushing the other slightly closer, laughing when the other would flinch. Eventually they were standing right at the edge, dangerously close. Jacqueline nudged Connor forward, and he pushed her back with a little more force than usual. It would have been fine, but her foot slipped in the snowy grass when she jumped back. She fell back hard, landing on her bum, and skid forward on the grass that grew forward to the edge. Her nails tore at the grass, her feet hanging off the edge already. And before either of them could react much further, she promptly slipped off the edge.

Her breath caught as adrenaline exploded in her veins. A little cry of pure fear squeaked from her as she fell, and it was snapped away on the wind. Her arms flailed helplessly through the air, and right before she hit the water she managed to get herself straightened out to a half streamlined position. There was a split second of utter silence before she struck the black water.

It was freezing, freezing cold. There was a distinct possibility she even broke a thin sheet of ice. The water was dark, and she swam to the surface—she had plunged a good thirty feet under. Gasping in the cold air, she wiped her hair out of her face. It had come out of its braid upon hitting the water, and now sat heavy and dark on her shoulders.

Seeing nothing better to do, she started swimming to the other shore. Every nerve in her body stung; she had hit the water a little sloppily in her panic. On the plus side, she felt very alive. Her heart was pumping like mad—her blood was fire. Across the cold bay she drifted, making a straight beeline for shore. The white of her robes and the black of her hair contrasted like yin and yang in her wake.

It took her a while to actually reach shore. The bay was deceptively large. She passed by the shipwreck on her way, at one point close enough to the hull so that she could actually reach out and touch it. The ship was a corpse, absolutely destroyed. It was gutted, headless and deader than a skeleton. The paint had long since worn away, and the old wood was all varying shades of gray. One of the masts had broken in half, and drifted at an angle in the water. It wasn't frightening, like it was haunted. More that it gave her a nostalgic feeling. It must have been a fine vessel in its prime.

As she reached shore, her legs almost gave out. Through sheer willpower she stayed standing, and took off her boots one by one to dump salty water out. Her hair dripped in her eyes, and she pulled it all to one side of her neck. Footsteps made her look up to see a stricken Connor. He stared at her; she watched back, and finally settled on a glare. He got the message instantly—he was about to get his arse kicked.

He turned on his heel and ran toward the shack. She sprinted after him. He may have been stronger, but she was faster, and caught up with him easily. Throwing her whole body weight forward, she tackled him into a deep drift of snow and fallen pine needles.

"Argh, Ratonhnhaké:ton!" She slapped his shoulders as he twisted around so he wasn't facedown in the snow. "I could absolutely kill you!" She continued her rant in angry French, mussing his hair and pinching his nose.

"I did not mean to!" He protested, trying in vain to wave her off. "You think I _wanted _to push you off? You could have died!"

"If I had died, then Achilles would have killed you and hung your head on the mantle!"

"Well, I am glad you survived, then!" He pushed her off into the snow and fixed his hair with his fingers. She glowered at him from where she sat, half buried. He held out his hand, which she grudgingly took.

As she got to her feet, she brushed the snow off of her clothes. Then, before they could start walking, she kicked him hard in the shin and went running off. "Achilles! Achilles!" She rounded the line of trees and saw their mentor standing outside the small shack. "Achilles, Connor pushed me off a cliff!"

"I did not _mean to_." Connor insisted, limping around to them.

"Both of you shut up." Achilles snapped. He threw out his cane to smack Jacqueline in the gut. "No one likes a tattle-tale." The cane then went to crack Connor on the shoulder. "Don't throw people off cliffs. Now apologise."

This was a ritual they had gone through a number of times during training when something like that happened. They both muttered apologies for their respective crimes and shook hands.

"Good. Now," Achilles held out his hand to the shack door. "How do you say it, Jacqueline? _Entré vous?" _


	6. Hoist The Colours

_Because fuck historical accuracy._

_W'P_

"_Does it matter that our anchors couldn't even reach the bottom of a bath tub? And the sails reflect the moon; it's such a strange job, playing blackjack on the deck." –Regina Spektor, "Sailor Song."_

_-O-_

Connor went first and knocked on the door. The voice that answered was angry and sounded drunk. "Go 'way!" Jacqueline looked with surprise to him, who shrugged. She waved him on. A little hesitantly, he opened the door and stepped inside.

"I said 'go 'way, boy. D'ya not speak the King's English?" A bearded man, slightly overweight and in some kind of captain's outfit, was slumped in a chair holding a bottle of mystery liquor.

The smell of alcohol and body odor swelled out of the door like a wave. Jacqueline gagged and pressed a hand over her nose and mouth. Even Connor grimaced as they stepped inside the dark, reeking shack. There was very little furniture, and the only inhabitant was slumped in a chair in the middle of the room. The man straightened up and wiped his mouth as Achilles followed them.

"Oh, I didn't see ya there, old man. I'd have set my home in order if I knew you'd be callin'."

"The boy's name is Connor, and the girl Jacqueline. They're here to help restore the property." Achilles said, gesturing to the teenagers.

After taking another heavy swig from his unlabelled bottle, he snapped to attention. "Restore? Restore! Pardon my manners!" He staggered to his feet and led them outside. He swung his arm grandly to indicate the wrecked ship. "She's still the fastest in the Atlantic. Sure, she needs some attention…minor things, mostly. But with a little attention, she'll fly again."

"Who is 'she'?" Connor asked. Jacqueline slapped a hand over her eyes.

"_Who _is _she_?" The captain man asked incredulously. "Why, the _Aquila, _boy! The Ghost of the Northern Seas!"

"The boat?"

"B-b…the _boat?! _She's a _ship, _boy, and make no mistake about it!" He moved up to Connor to smack his arm, and he again grimaced and waved a hand over his nose. The man stepped over to Achilles and grumbled something.

"Connor, Jacqueline, meet me back at the manor when you've finished here." The old man sighed, and started back off up the hill.

"So she needs repairs." Jacqueline nodded to the wreck. "'Minor things.' Do you have supplies?"

"Aye, lass, minor things. But I am lacking the supplies. Some…some…" He stumbled around a little. "Quality timber would help me get started."

"We can see to that." Connor assured. "How long before it—_she _is able to sail again?"

"Just get me the lumber, kiddos, and I'll raise a crew." He slumped against the wall of his shack, his speech trailing off to a nearly incoherent slur. Jacqueline stepped away from him and looked over to Connor. They shared a similar look with eyebrows raised as they walked back in the direction of the manor. She elbowed him, and he pushed her back.

_Six Months Later._

"Should we use champagne?" Jacqueline tossed the idea around and wondered how hard it would be to acquire it. She sat next to Connor on a large rock next to the manor's stables. A dark puppy sat in her lap and gnawed happily on her fingers. The summer was hot and lazy, and the air was foggy with old pollen and sunshine.

"Why would we use champagne?" Connor asked with a yawn. He was re-braiding that lock of hair at his temple that was always braided, focusing intently to make it even.

"_Je ne sais pas. _I think it's a tradition. You smash a bottle of champagne or wine or something on a ship before her maiden voyage."

"Why?"

"Good luck? I already said I don't know."

"I do not speak French."

"You aren't _that _bad. 'I don't know' is simple stuff. I say it often enough."

"Maybe I do not pay attention."

"Argh," Jacqueline leaned over and placed the puppy on his face. It wriggled and nipped his nose. Connor picked it up by the scruff of its neck and placed it down in the grass. "I think it's about time we go see the _Aquila _in all its…'glory.'"

Reluctantly, and only after a few minutes of sighing and grumbling like lazy young people, they stood and started meandering down to the shore. A few months ago, Jacqueline had gotten him back for pushing her off that cliff. Waking up in the middle of the night to having two angry roosters thrown into one's bed is an experience _almost_ as traumatising as being pushed off a cliff with no guarantee of surviving.

Faulkner greeted them enthusiastically and sober, already on the _Aquila, _which was admittedly looking much better. Anything would have looked better than the gutted corpse it had been, though. "Come aboard and feast your eyes, kids!" Connor walked forward, but was stopped by the former captain. "No, no, no, no, not the left foot! Never the left foot. Horrible luck. Step with the right foot first."

Jacqueline shrugged, and tried first instead, with her right foot. Once they were aboard, Connor pushed on a post appraisingly. "She is…solid?"

"Aye. Weatherly and sleek. She'll fetch 12 knots in a stiff gale, ne'er a ship from here to Singapore can outrun her on her best day." Faulkner gave him a good-natured pat to the shoulder. "Wha'dya say we take her out and show you what she can do first hand?"

"Where would we go?" Connor asked.

"As it happens, she still needs guns and the officers to command them. We'll launch straight away. Don't worry lad, I'll make sure you and the lass sprout good sea legs."

The ship set sail, lurching out of the calm bay. The sails made great wobbling sounds, wavering and snapping as they picked up a breeze. The crew began running around the deck like ants, pulling ropes and climbing shrouds and repeating orders to be heard across the ship. Jacqueline grinned and looked up at the main mast. It towered so high that it looked to be at an angle. As the ship rocked and creaked out of the bay, several white gulls took off from their perches to fly around the crow's nest.

It took her a few seconds of looking around to see that Connor had walked up to the wheel of the ship and was steering it. She waved at him, but he was focusing religiously on keeping the ship steady. That was probably for the best.

Jacqueline grabbed onto a shroud and began climbing. The last time she had been on a boat was on her short trip to the Homestead, but the _Aquila _looked to be a much finer vessel than the _Mariner _had been. Climbing up to the top of the ship, it felt as though she had entered a separate weather zone. The temperature dropped what felt like ten degrees or more. The wind was much colder, and whipped her cloak and hair behind her. The sun was high in the sky, but didn't seem to reach into the cold.

The lookout was leaning against a rail, pressed into a corner by the position of the ropes and planks. He nodded to her as she jumped up to join him. He was in his early twenties, maybe, with a dark patch of hair on his chin and a red scarf around his neck. He looked only mildly surprised to see her up there. "Hale."

"Hale. Is it always this cold up here?" She called over the wind.

"Aye! You get used to it after a while. It's just good to be back on th' open sea." He gestured at the churning mass of blue, blue water out before them. "Been sittin' around and drinkin' for too long."

The ship leaned to one side as they turned, and they braced themselves. Jacqueline twisted her neck to see Connor getting a talking-to from Faulkner. "Where are we going, do you think?"

"I reckon we've set a course for Martha's Vineyard." The lookout decided, scratching his chin. "Aye, that'll be it. The captain'll find our guns there. Though it seems he's first mate now, eh?" He also nodded down at Connor.

"I don't think Connor is quite qualified to be the captain—not yet, at least." She laughed. "This is his first time on a ship!"

"Ah, he's doin' fine." Her companion waved a hand. "Better'n most on their first days on th' water. I see you've already got your sea legs, though."

"_Oui_—I mean, aye. I spent three months on board a British ship to come to the Colonies."

"Now how in the _blazes_ did a wee sprite like you board a lobster's boat?"

"I…stowed away. They never found me."

The lookout chuckled. "Bloody Regulars. Just goes to show how good their security is that a young girl can slip aboard unnoticed for three months."

"I suppose."

They fell into silence and watched out as the ship coasted from the Homestead's waters. The foliage grew less deciduous and more tropical, and the gulls overhead grew in number. Although it was cooler where they were standing, the temperature increased to a reasonable one. It must have been baking on deck. Jacqueline leaned over the rail to watch the water far below. The slight tilt of the mast was accentuated by many times from the top, to the point where it seemed if she were to jump off, she would land squarely in the water. White foam crashed up the polished sides of the _Aquila_ every time the prow dashed down into the waves.

Jacqueline sighed and bid the friendly lookout goodbye. She climbed back down the mast and once on flat ground, so to speak, walked up to the helm. "_Salut, _Connor! Having fun?"

"I am not sure yet." He replied, with an uneasy smile. His grip on the wheel was tight and nervous.

"Ah, the lad's havin' a great ol' time!" Faulkner slapped him on the shoulder. "Nothin' like the open sea, eh? How've you been holdin' up, lass?"

"This is not my first time at sea." Jacqueline said. She hopped up to perch on the rail behind the wheel, swinging her feet. "But it is the most enjoyable so far. How are you liking it, Connor?"

"It is…much different than anything I have experienced, on the frontier or otherwise." He judged, turning the wheel a couple hands.

"That's a good analysis." She nodded. "Faulkner, how long until we reach Martha's Vineyard?"

"I'd give 'er a few days. The ol' girl's been out of shape for a long time, and the Vineyard is a good voyage away besides."

"Achilles is going to kill us." Jacqueline added to Connor. His eyes widened slightly and briefly at the realisation that they had essentially ditched their mentor back on the Homestead. She grinned, and they both chuckled, albeit fearfully. "We're dead."

"I'll make sure to get you back to the old man safe an' sound, don't you worry." Faulkner assured them. "We won't be more'n a couple weeks."

Jacqueline almost lost her balance where she was perched. "A couple _weeks?"_

"Aye. A couple weeks, and a short trip at that."

She ran a hand through her hair, pulling it to the side, and let out a querulous breath. "We're dead."

Two days ticked by. They adapted to the life of the sea fairly quick. Connor spent most of his time getting a feel for captaining the ship. Despite all of Faulkner's claims that the _Aquila _was the fastest ship on the coast, the trip was disappointingly slow. The ship hugged the coast so as not the miss the Vineyard when they found it. Jacqueline spent her time between the upper deck with Connor and the crow's nest with the lookout, whose name she learned was Thomas. The rest of the crew was a friendly enough bunch, though did take to drink a tad bit during the evenings.

On the same note, both Jacqueline and Connor had their first strong drink on board. It was the first night at sea, and most of the crew was spending some down time below decks. It was a very cheery atmosphere. The sailors were happy to be out on a short errand, at least just to get back on the water. They danced a sloppy two-step in a circle, while the rest clapped to the beat of a fast and out of tune fiddle. The young Assassins sat at the edge of the ring, clapping along and staying safely away from the bottles being passed around.

Seeing that neither of them was drinking or dancing, Thomas took a stand against such injustice by pouring them both small glasses of amber, strong-smelling _something _that Jacqueline was hesitant to ingest. "This smells toxic!" She called over the music, pointing to the glass. He had spilled over, and she was half afraid she would drop the tiny, slippery glass.

"It's called whiskey!" Thomas laughed back. He was definitely _not _afraid of ingesting it. "Bottoms up!"

Connor looked to Jacqueline, and she shrugged, clinked her glass to his, and they both threw back their drinks. It felt like she had just drank molten iron. The whiskey burned down her throat. Tears burned her eyes, so she pressed a hand to her chest and coughed sharply. Connor wasn't faring much better, and rested an elbow on her shoulder and another hand over his mouth. Thomas got a good laugh and offered them more—they both declined immediately. He insisted on teaching them how to two-step, and they learned, whether they liked it or not.

After learning the basics, Jacqueline was feeling the effects of the drink. Her body, unaccustomed to alcohol, was floundering at the strong drink. Reeling but numbly happy, she felt herself get shoved into the circle of music and golden candlelight. Connor was there, too, and they were apparently expected to dance what they had just learned. He had the most trouble, more than her, learning and performing it. She expected the European dance styles were very unlike whatever he had grown up with in his village.

Finding nothing else to do, they got into position, awkward and stumbling, blushing and getting pushed back together when they tried to back out. The crew laughed good-naturedly at them. Jacqueline grinned like a manic out at them.

-o-

The next day's weather was just as fine, though she didn't feel well. The drink from the night before had taken a toll on her. She was slightly drowsy and had a mild headache, and so spent her time sitting at the top of the mast. Thomas taught her how to play a game of cards, and she spent the afternoon losing game after game and eventually gave up in frustration. To her benefit they were passing through some rocky shallows, where the stone was dark and the foliage was rich and green. Connor was going extra slow, and they lazily drifted.

"I could swear you were trying to put me in a worse humour than I already am." Jacqueline grumbled, rubbing her temples. Disgruntled French mumbled from her lips, and she began collecting the cards.

"Aye, well, maybe I shouldn't have given ya any whiskey." Thomas said, even a little sheepishly.

"Maybe you shouldn't have cheated that last round." Jacqueline set the deck evenly so it was a smooth block.

"Cheating! You wound me. I'm a man o' the sea. Cheatin' is the _last _thing I'd be caught doin'." He smirked, but was looking out over the sea. He tended to do that. It was his job, after all, but it often felt like far more. They would be talking or showing off or being accused of cheating and he would trail off mid-conversation to stare out over the water. Jacqueline discovered that this was the look of someone who could never love an earthly being. He was married to the open ocean.

A sudden shuddering and splintering rocked the entire ship. The pair in the nest braced themselves. Playing cards scattered everywhere, blowing away on the wind like odd leaves in autumn. Clinging to the mast, Jacqueline could see Connor fumbling to get them out of the shallows. The ship turned sharply the opposite direction into deeper water. Once they were sailing again and Faulkner was lamenting so loudly about his damaged ship that it was audible where they were, she let go and sat back down.

"I hope Connor knows what he's doing." Jacqueline sighed. She began pulling her hair apart into three equal lengths to be braided.

"These're treacherous waters," Thomas reasoned. He picked up a remaining card and observed it. "It ain't his fault. He's doin' better'n most. Better'n our drunkard first mate, at least." He muttered and tossed the card to her.

"As long as he doesn't kill us all, I'll be happy." She took the card, leaving her hair undone. It was a Queen of Hearts. She tucked it into her pocket. "So much for our game. Now you will never get to see my brilliant strategy I was developing to beat you."

"Ha! That's a laugh." He straightened up and shielded his eyes from the warm, yellow sun. The _Aquila _had emerged from a thin isthmus and was creaking after another ship ahead of it. Small, green islands were scattered around the bright azure water, and the _Aquila _navigated carefully through them.

A seagull squawked and landed next to them, above them on the mast. Thomas waved it off and settled back to lean on the rail. Jacqueline put her hood up to as not to burn in the high sun. Below them, a tiny sailboat rowed by. The men aboard could be heard singing a sailor's tune to keep in pace.

"I bet you I can't balance on here." She said it flippantly, like she was bored and looking for something to say.

"You're on." Thomas waved her on. "If you lose, you get another glass of whiskey tonight."

Jacqueline shuddered minutely, a little shiver of disgust at the memory. "Fine. But if Iwin, there is no more drinking for either of us or Connor until we dock back on the Homestead."

The lookout considered it, and then shook her hand. "Deal. Don't kill yourself."

The first step was stretching. Jacqueline rolled her neck, pulled her shoulders until they popped, and clasped her hands together above her head before bowing so her hands were a couple inches from her toes. And then, carefully, she stepped up onto the rail. It was thick and sturdy wood about six inches wide and half that thick. The angle of the ship was off-putting, and she teetered dangerously at first. After getting a grip, she put one foot in front of the other, and steadily began to work her way around the mast.

"Damn!" Thomas chuckled. "And here I was, tryin' to show ya a good time. I been bested by a girl."

"Ha, ha!" Jacqueline leaned down and stood on her hands. She circled the mast again.

"Now you're just showin' off."

"_The King, and his men, stole the Queen from her bed, and bound her in her bones._" She sang, smiling distantly as she tried remembering the lyrics. "_The seas be ours, and by the powers, where we will, we'll roam."_

"Don't be singin' such tunes, Jacqueline!" Thomas scolded before she could continue. "It's apt to bring foul luck. Where'd you learn such a black song?"

"I heard it on the ship that brought me to the Homestead. They sang it to keep in rhythm when hauling the sails." She answered. While walking, she tried to push her untied hair from her path, where it tangled in her fingers. "Why is it bad?"

"It's a pirates' song, that is." He replied darkly. "Meant to call the bastards wherever a good and God-fearin' ship be sailin'."

"So you're saying I just attracted pirates to us?" Jacqueline stopped. Her hair was becoming a problem.

"Nay, but if not them, then certainly ill fortune for the crew and the _Aquila_!"

"How old are you, Thomas?"

He paused. "I'm twenty."

Jacqueline began lowering herself down, resting her toes against the rail, standing up, and finally sitting down with her legs inside the nest. "Don't you think you're a bit old to believe in fairy tales?"

"It's not a fairy tale!" He protested, almost angrily. She looked at him, and realised it wasn't. To him, it was real. These had been stories he'd been told growing up. He had been raised on the sea. To him, the song was a real curse, and she had just cast it.

She smiled and shrugged. "_D'accord._ I will not sing it." She grinned in victory. "Nor will you or I be drinking any more of that whiskey."


	7. Graduation

_I guess the speeds of events are being a little inconsistent…I now regret not going into Jacqueline's training more, perhaps I will revisit it with flashbacks. _

_Also, thank you everyone for all the favorites and follows! I'm so happy that this story is at least sorta taking off! But don't forget to __**review! **__Reviews are like delicious, delicious fuel. It tastes like assassin. _

_W'P_

"_We are keenly aware of the faults of our friends, but if they like us enough it doesn't matter." -Mignon McLaughlin_

_-o-_

Faulkner pushed into the tavern first. His apprentices followed warily, awkwardly. The place was smoky and it seemed as though alcohol saturated every greasy surface. Jacqueline wondered why, out of the entire Vineyard they could go, they were visiting a seedy dive that was probably frequented by less than desirable company. The former captain seemed to have no problem with it and magnetised to the barmaid, or perhaps she was the hostess.

"Hullo, miss Mandy. You're looking every bit as ravishing as I remember." He said chivalrously.

The unattractive woman turned to sneer at him. "Hm! After all these years you sail all the way to the Vineyard to pay me compliments?"

Faulkner made a face, like he'd been caught. "We are looking for David and Richard Clutterbuck.

"Hm." She huffed again, and nodded to a small table where two men were hunched. "Nice to see you, too."

Faulkner strode to the table, Connor and Jacqueline meandering aimlessly behind as they took in the patrons and tavern. One of the men looked up as they approached. He had high cheekbones, a shaven face and a nose that was crooked from a bad break. The low light shone off his bald scalp. "Robert Faulkner. Where the hell have you been?"

"Sorry for leavin' like I did, lads, but where I was goin', nobody could know." Faulkner sat down at the table on the last remaining side; the other was against the stairs to the second floor.

The second man replied this time. There was a little more weight on him, and a black beard clung to his round chin. "No. Between contracts at the moment."

"Well, we're looking for gunnery officers. What's you two say to workin' for me again?"

The comrades looked over the table at each other. "We'd be for getting' into a few new scrapes." Beard said. The three men laughed.

Jacqueline puffed out her cheek and exhaled out the corner of her mouth. Connor caught her glance and they both rolled their eyes as the men did "business." As Connor's eyes settled, it was on a table across from Faulkner. Two men sat there as well, but kept their heads bowed over their business on the table. Their attire was nicer than most there, but something about their shadiness threw up red flags for Jacqueline. Apparently, it was more than red flags for her friend.

Connor marched right up to the table. "Where is Charles Lee?" He demanded.

One of the men looked up. His face was paunchy and pale, and he wore a white wig with an elaborate hat on top. Jacqueline was more of a sailor than this man. "I don't much care for your tone, boy."

The other man at the table stood. He was a towering wall of stink and facial scars. His hair was like Connor's and hung over his face, but instead of being soft and braided with beads, it was dirty and made his features look even more haggard and ugly. He stood easily a foot taller than either of them.

"Hey, you don't wanna be doin' that, Biddle." He placed a hand on Connor's shoulder and held another one out beseechingly to the other bloke.

"Bobby Faulkner turned to wet-nursing?" The man drawled, his scruffy lip curling up into a cruel smirk. He absently pushed Connor out of the way, which also moved Jacqueline away. "Good you finally realised you're a shite sailor."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Miss Mandy hurried over and stepped between them, fearlessly shoving both men apart. "Not in here, gentlemen. Better still, not at all! Bobby, take your friends and _get out!_"

"Let's go, boys." Faulkner said reluctantly, and gestured for the others. He didn't break eye contact with Biddle until they were almost out the door. "Our guns ought to be ready. Come on."

It turned out the guns weren't ready. Not ready enough to set sail with, anyway. Jacqueline was now frustrated and irritated and some other restless feelings, but she didn't want to stay in the Vineyard with Biddle and the other man lurking about. So decided to stay below deck on the _Aquila, _shooting a post and trying to become Robin Hood by splitting her arrow in half.

Gnawing the inside of her cheek, she watched as the flint dug in directly next to her previous shot. She reached back for another arrow and found that her quiver was empty. It took a moment of confused groping before she turned around. There was no one behind her. Back facing the post, her spent arrows were also gone. She exhaled with a ferocity that could be considered angry.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, I am _not _in the mood. Your little outburst almost got the lot of us into a good fight, so I'm not exactly happy right now." She tossed her empty quiver aside and sat fast enough that her cloak billowed in a half circle behind her.

A handful of black- and white-fletched arrows dangled in front of her, clattering softly like bones. She grabbed them, tossed them aside by the quiver, spun with a leg out, and Connor went toppling over. She lunged across the raw wood floor to him, still baffled by what had just happened. She swung a leg over, straddling him, and slapped a hand down on his sternum to keep him in place. He put up his hands in surrender; it was strangely reminiscent of his first time at the manor.

"Stealing my arrows is not going to put me in a good mood." She frowned. "What was all that about back there? In the tavern?"

"I made a vow to find Charles Lee." Connor said firmly. "Men like them will lead me to him."

"Not if you get us _killed _first." She hissed. "Did the sea get to your head, Ratonhnhaké:ton? Picking fights with Templars is not the way to get to Lee!"

"I was not trying to pick a fight." He tried sitting up, clearly uncomfortable with their position, but she pushed him back down. He grimaced and rubbed the back of his head. "I only asked a question."

"You may as well have drawn a blade!"

"Nothing went wrong!"

"Because Faulkner was there." Jacqueline snapped. "Because _he_ interfered. If he had not, the consequences could have been much, much worse."

"But they were not."

"And what if I told Achilles, hm?" She asked. Her tone was light, but sharper than a knife. "I could. He likes me more."

"He does not! And he does not have to know."

Now Connor simply tried pushing her off. She grabbed his wrists and slammed them to the floor spread eagle. He made an attempt at pushing her hands away, but every time he got one free she would manage to pin it back down again. He tried throwing her off, and it briefly succeeded. She rolled off to the side, fell back on the balls of her feet, and pounced forward to tackle him. They tussled for a while, in the dim underneath of the ship. A few punches were thrown between them, drawn to avoid injury. Connor, in all their training, refused to land a single strike on her that would ever leave a mark or actually do some damage. It was no different, but he still had the advantage. He fought better in close combat, while she was better with open spaces. The careless fighting went on in a flurry of energy and quiet tamping of feet, but in the end, they ended up in the same position as before.

Jacqueline finally pinned him down again, panting from exertion. Her braid dropped over her shoulder and brushed his chest where his tunic made a V. Connor swallowed. His cheeks flushed a little.

"Will you stop moving for five seconds and listen to me?" She gasped.

"Why should I? You are making a mountain of an anthill."

"Wrong! This kind of attitude will get you into trouble, Ratonhnhaké:ton! What would we have done if Faulkner had not stopped those men?"

"I would have fought them!" He declared. "And I would have won."

"How do you know? We've only a few years of training combined, and we're barely armed at that."

"I do not need weapons. I would have fought them with my bare hands if it brought me closer to Lee."

That brought her up short. He was really set on this. She sighed, and let out a little breathless laugh. "You are impossible."

"Oi!" Faulkner knocked on the doorframe, making them both flinch and look up. At that moment they both seemed to realise what a scene they must make—a couple of teenagers in the abandoned belly of a ship, catching their breaths, with one quite literally straddling the other, looking tousled with a few emerging marks on their quickly reddening skin.

The first mate made an exasperated noise. "Come on, you two. Time to set off. Connor, up top, we need someone at the helm. Jacqueline, just…" He waved a hand, shaking his bearded head. "Get off the poor boy."

She flushed to her ears and did so. Connor awkwardly brushed himself off and fled after Faulkner. Jacqueline picked up her arrows and quiver, rubbed the blush from her cheeks, and followed. The sun was a bright, boiling yellow circle that hovered at the horizon. The sky was pink, with dark clouds, and the air smelled like grapes and salt and pine. She inhaled deeply through her nose, and climbed the shroud up to the nest and Thomas.

"Ready to go?" She asked, climbing inside the nest. "Guns! Exciting!"

"And enough more crew members to man them." Thomas nodded and leaned against the side. His brow furrowed, and he looked her over. "You seem troubled. What's on your mind?"

Jacqueline scoffed from the back of her throat. "Ratonhnhaké:ton is being ridiculous as ever. While we were in the Vineyard he almost got us into serious trouble."

It took him a second to realise she meant Connor. "Ah, right. What'd he do?"

"He tried…picking a fight, basically." She sighed and ran a hand down her face. "_Cet idiot._"

Thomas laughed. "Get into a good ol' fashioned brawl, then, didja?"

"No!" She said indignantly. "Faulkner stopped it before it went too far." She made the scoffing noise again. "Connor is going to get into a big mess some day, and Faulkner won't always be there to bail him out. But, I suppose…" She sighed, not unhappily. "I will be."

"You're lookin' a touch beaten yourself," He pointed out, gesturing to her stray bits of hair and a darkening bruise around her wrist—that one was from Connor throwing her into a post. He had a tight grip.

"Ah, _oui_." She quickly re-braided her hair to keep the fly-aways down. "I brought up the topic and we ended up fighting about it. Actually fighting."

"Oh, I catcha," Thomas gave her an exaggerated wink and put up air quotes. "_'Fightin'."_

The flush from before rushed back up her neck. "Oh, no, it's not—"

A series of eardrum-rupturing explosions made the mast sway like a flag. On an outcropping of rock on the starboard side, a beached English ship shattered apart into splinters. There were a few cheers from below at the mindless violence against an inanimate object. The two observers in the crow's nest looked down on the deck as the port side cannons fired at another, similar ship. The swivel cannon struck a hole in the hull of the old ship, and it must have been filled with powder kegs, for it erupted apart with a rumbling, fiery boom. Jacqueline clapped happily at the spectacle, watching as the remains of the ships sank into the water.

"Now I see why we got the guns!" She giggled. "I like this ship!"

"Ah!" Thomas cried out, and pointed off the starboard bow at the same time as another lookout on deck. "Avast, British gunships, starboard side!" There were indeed gunships. They were little and dwarfed compared to the _Aquila, _but were firing upon them nonetheless. "This is your fault, you and your black song!"

Jacqueline grumbled something in French about superstitious fools, and swung herself out of the nest to the shroud. She dropped halfway down to the deck. There was a cry for them to get down, and most of the crew introduced their knees to the floor. Once they were given the all clear, she stood up again and made a dash up to the helm.

"Why the hell are they shooting at us?" She asked loudly. It was a lot noisier on deck.

"Destroying property of the crown. Disturbing the King's peace. Take your pick." Faulkner said dryly.

The dark clouds that had smeared the sky had evolved into a dark ceiling over them, and rain began to trickle down. "What do we do?" Connor asked. He turned the ship so their side faced the attacking ships at all times.

"Naught else but to fight back. Sink the bastards!"

The cannons were loaded, all of them. If nothing else, their new gunmen seemed eager to show off their skills with gunpowder and solid metal. When the call for fire was called, they launched the guns with bloodthirsty efficiency. The missed shots made vertical plumes of white foam in the black, churning waters, but the shots that landed blew apart the much smaller boats. There were only perhaps three or four, and a single swivel cannon could take down one by itself. As it seemed they were clear to continue on, an enormous ship about the size of the _Aquila _materialised from nowhere.

"I'll be betwattled. Where the bloody hell did she come from?" Faulkner exclaimed. Connor was forced to wrench the ship back, because the British one was coming at them at a destructive angle.

The two ships ran parallel now, so close that Jacqueline could see a candle burning in the captain's quarters, and the redcoats running up and down deck. The scene was illuminated in a moment by a flash of lightning. Thunder crashed in a single bang louder than any gunshot. The rain was pouring down on them now, making it hard to see and stand. Behind her, Connor roared to brace, and everyone hit the deck. The beams under their feet shuddered at the force of the British ship's attack, and shards of wood shot through the air. A few seconds passed, and Jacqueline stood. The British were reloading, drifting away, and this was their chance.

There was barely time to cover her ears. The gunmen were crack shots, and the English ship took a blow. It came back, of course, rocking up and down on the crashing waves toward them. They braced in time for the volley, but not soon enough, and a few agonised yells of pain were whisked away in the storm.

"Damage report!" Faulkner cried, and listened with a grave expression as a nearby crewmember listed the damages to the hull. "Right. Girl, go get the injured down below! Quickly now, go!"

Jacqueline dashed off down the deck and promptly slipped to fall flat on her face. Panic hit her when she saw the blood that ran across her arms and hands, and then disgust when she realised it wasn't her blood. She stumbled up to the nearest injured crewmember. He had several large splinters of wood sticking from him, and was missing a couple fingers. She managed to get his attention and escort him below decks.

Underneath, a few casualties had already been laid out on their bunks, and the deeper parts were now flooded. "This is chaos!" Jacqueline cried to a fellow temporary nurse. When he didn't reply, she assumed she must have said it in French.

"Get bandaging." He instructed. They had to speak loudly to be heard over one man's screaming—he was missing a foot. "It's over there."

She jogged to the indicated crates and opened the first one. Potatoes. At another time, she might have laughed, but instead, she just shoved it to the side and checked the next one. That one was the bandaging. Perplexed, she wondered who in their right mind put medical supplies next to potatoes.

There was no time to think, however. She tossed several rolls to the other caretaker and took one herself, along with a bottle of whiskey that was in there. Back with her fingerless acquaintance, she uncorked the whiskey with her teeth and began pulling splinter from him. When most of the debris was out she splashed the alcohol on the injuries and dabbed it away with the bandaging. She patched up the fingers as tight as she could. He had stopped screaming, but was staring in disbelief at his missing fingers. Floundering and panicking, she shoved the rest of the whiskey in his hand and abandoned the wounded sailors for the upper deck.

Now drenched in diluted blood and filth, she numbly fell to her knees at the call to brace. This was all wrong—it was supposed to be a visit to Martha's Vineyard, not a firefight with the British on the open seas. The all clear was announced, and she pulled herself to her feet. The world's colours seemed washed out and the sounds distant, as though through a tunnel. This was different than defending the manor. These were comrades-in-arms, dying and bleeding out in front of her.

Staring off in the distance, she fumbled back to the helm. She fell over when the cannons rang out for the last time. The British frigate descended into the water, its flames being extinguished as it went, like a curtain falling. Faulkner clapped her shoulder as she approached. He was talking to Connor.

"Carry on, sailor. Not bad for your first voyage, eh, boy?" He said appraisingly. "Now, we best be getting back, or the old man will have my guts for garters."

-o-

The _Aquila _docked on the Homestead in the high afternoon. The journey back had taken much longer, combined with their time stocking up at the Vineyard. They had been gone three weeks. Jacqueline bounded off the ship, not eager to see Achilles but not eager to keep him waiting, either. Connor and Faulkner lagged behind, talking about the raving old Peg Leg man. Thomas caught up to her before she could throw herself at her mentor's feet.

"Until next time, Miss Jack," He said, a name he had given her because her full one was "such a bleedin' mouthful" to say. He kissed the back of her hand. "The _Aquila _will be here."

"_Au revoir, _Thomas." She beamed back, a little pink touching her cheeks. "You are a good travelling companion."

At a glance over her shoulder, she saw Connor waiting for her. With a friendly wave to the lookout, she jogged to catch up with her friend. They walked in silence up the hill with the solemnity of convicts to their execution. When they crested the edge of the hill to see the manor waiting, unchanged, she spoke first.

"What do you think he'll make us do?" She asked fearfully, not wanting to hear any answer Connor had.

"I do not know." He said simply.

He went first, gingerly opening the door, as though expecting a series of complicated explosives to set off upon opening. But nothing happened. They walked into the manor. It was silent but for their tentative footsteps and breathing. Standing at the base of the stairs like Charon at the gates to the Underworld was Achilles. He frowned deeply, looking between them sternly.

At last, breaking the heavy silence, he spoke in his deceivingly soft voice, worn from age. "Three weeks, and not even a goodbye before you left."

He didn't sound angry. He sounded...disappointed. Connor said the only thing between both of them. "Sorry."

Achilles turned away from them and took a step down the hall. He glanced over his shoulder. "Well, what are you waiting for? Come on."

Jacqueline took a deep breath to extinguish her pent-up adrenaline. They were going to the basement to train. She wasn't going to be skinned alive. She hadn't been so happy to start training since she began a few years ago. Once they arrived back in the familiar, low-lit, miniature arena, Achilles turned to her and waved a hand.

"If you could excuse us, Jacqueline." He said wearily. Though confused, she simply nodded and started back up the stairs. Behind her, she heard him say, "Put them on."

She spent her few free minutes sitting in the kitchen, resting her head against the window. The sun of the afternoon was warm on her skin, but she was nowhere near falling asleep. She was staring at her hands. Some skin had been scraped away that night on the _Aquila, _when she had slipped in the blood and water and salt. Her knees looked similar under her stockings. Little bits of blood were dried to her nail beds and didn't want to go away. She took a shaky breath and looked back out the window.

Footsteps on the basement stairs caused her to look back. Connor was standing in the hall, straightening the sleeves of the robes that had been on the dummy. They were a little big on him, but suit him well. Achilles emerged from behind him, and she stood to join them.

"Once upon a time there was a ceremony for such occasions, but I don't think any of us are really the type for that. You may as well join in, as you never went through this." Achilles gestured for her to stand next to Connor. "You've your tools and training, your targets and goals. And now you have your titles. Welcome to the Brotherhood. Both of you."


	8. The Homestead I: Daily Life

_This chapter will be a sort of "filler," because I wanted to not skip directly to their adulthood and rather focus more on their late teenage years and continued training after their initiation into the Brotherhood. I may do another chapter like this, too, and then an early Christmas one. _

_P.s. Incidentally, I don't really like oranges. _

_P.p.s. For this chapter, a capitalised –O- means a different scene. A lowercase –o- means a change of perspective._

_**P.p.p.s**__. If you have any suggestions for a the next chapter (which will be similar to this) I'm happy to take them! _

_W'P_

"_Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid." -Frederick Buechner_

_-O-_

When Connor woke, someone was breaking into the manor. A great cacophony of clashing, banging and yelling made him sit up and stumble drowsily from his bed, clumsily strapping on a hidden blade. Fumbling down the stairs, the noises grew louder. Something smelled like it was burning. At the base of the stairs, he walked toward the kitchen, where the thieves were. Before he could get there, the familiar smack of a walking cane to his middle stopped him.

Achilles stood at the entrance to the kitchen. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

"What's happening?" Connor asked. The yelling in the kitchen could be identified as Jacqueline, but speaking in entirely French, they couldn't understand her.

"The girl's decided to try and cook." The old man sighed. "I couldn't stop her."

An orange hurled from the kitchen doorway and hit the wall behind them with a splat. This was slightly less unusual, oddly enough; Jacqueline had taken quite a shine to the fruit, and ate them obsessively. Everything—the manor, her, the grounds, _everything_—absolutely reeked of oranges. They had gotten used to it, but seeing oranges lying around was not uncommon.

"Why is she trying to cook? Why now?" Connor peeked around the corner to see her smashing her way through pots and pans, banging through cupboards and drawers. Her braided hair, normally neat and even, was crooked and hastily done, and some was coming out.

"How should I know?" Achilles scoffed. "As long as she doesn't burn the damn house down, she can do whatever she wants in there." He started away. "And get dressed."

Connor looked down at himself, still in his sleepwear, and went back upstairs to change into his robes. When he came back down, Jacqueline was holding a small torch up to three small dishes on a table in the kitchen.

He hurried in, alarmed by the fire. "What are you doing?"

She shushed him and put the torch down to the little dishes. It cooked something on top, making it glaze over golden. When she was done, she stamped out the torch and waved a hand over the food to cool it down.

"What is it?" Connor asked again.

"_Crème brûlée." _Something about speaking exclusively French with no one to stop her had made her accent go through the roof.

"What does that mean?"

"Burnt cream." She said "cream" like "crehm."

"_Burnt cream?_"

"_Ouais._ It is better than it sounds, _croyez-moi._" She rifled through a few drawers until she found a spoon, and came back to the crème brûlée, and continued waiting impatiently.

There was a long pause. Connor continued frowning skeptically at the burnt…whatever-it-was that she was staring at, like a hawk at its prey. He half expected it to grow legs and run away, how vigilant an eye she kept on the little white dishes. It didn't really smell like anything, except perhaps roasted sugar and crushed oranges. That was actually coming from her, not the food. He glanced at her. A lock of hair had loosened from her crooked braid and stuck out, an odd black loop. She looked tired; he wondered how long she had been awake trying to make these three little dishes.

"All right." Jacqueline huffed, done waiting. "Now, let's eat. There is a technique."

Then she did an odd thing. She flipped the spoon around, edge down, and tapped it against the sugar on top. It cracked like gold glass. She stopped before eating, and pushed one of the dishes to him.

"You try it first. I'm sure it's terrible." She joked. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked drawn.

Just to stop her from stressing, he took a spoon and did the same, cracking the sugar. Taking a scoop, the underneath was a thick, off-white cream. A little warily, he tried it, and was surprised. "It's cold!"

"All of it?!" Jacqueline exclaimed.

"No, just the cream." He observed the rest of the dessert. "It's very sweet."

"Is it too sweet?"

"Not at all. It's actually very good."

She took a large, unceremonious scoop and crammed it in her mouth. The noise she uttered made Connor's neck warm. "Right." She picked up the dish and continued eating as she slid down to sit on the floor. "I'm just going to sit down here."

"Should I take this to Achilles?" Connor looked under the table, the last dish in his hand.

"If you want." She mumbled, still eating. He decided to, and told Achilles how to eat it, as well. When he came back, she was asleep.

-O-

The church was empty. It must have been empty for a long time. The air was still, and silent. The whitewashed walls were dilapidated and the paint was cracking. Dirt covered the floor, and stirred up as Jacqueline walked through it. Dead leaves from the recent autumn gathered under the pews. Jesus, crucified at the end of the hall, stared with dully-painted eyes into the distance. She stopped halfway down the aisle, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. For a moment she considered turning back, but took a deep breath, and continued.

She knelt at the altar, the first time she had ever done so. A long time passed while she sat, with her hands on her knees, and her hood pushed back. Christ didn't look at her. His gaze was directed at the back wall, not down. A bird had made a nest in the crown of thorns. A silvery spider web stretched between a nail in his left palm and his hollow cheek.

Jacqueline had abandoned her faith long ago. As a child, she used to believe in God. That changed on the day of her parents' deaths. What kind of all-loving God would allow that? Why would He make her watch them die? As a thief, she knew she was going to Hell. But as she learned of the things that Templars did, and she killed to protect the manor, she began to doubt.

With a sigh, she murmured a prayer under her breath and crossed herself. She looked over her shoulder, like she was committing a crime. Giving Jesus a last glance, she pulled her hood back up and silently swept out of the church into the cool autumn air.

-O-

A little puppy snuffled through the dirt of the stables. Its fluffy, white and tan fur was matted with dirt. It saw a beetle and pounced on it, little jaws snapping it up. Jacqueline almost tripped over it as she went to feed the horses. It yelped and ran off a few feet. She craned her neck to see it pacing anxiously at the edge of the grass.

"Oh, look at you!" She smiled and tossed her mare the bale of hay. She crouched and made kissy noises. "Come here! It's okay, come here."

The puppy hesitantly padded over to her. Once it was close enough, she held her hand out flat and it sniffed her. Its nose was cool and wet. After apparently deciding she wasn't a threat, it put its front paws on her knee and licked her palm. Grinning, Jacqueline picked it up and carried it into the manor. Connor was out hunting, and there was no telling when he'd be back. Luckily, Achilles was always home, and she found him in the sitting room.

"Achilles, look—"

"No, Jacqueline."

"But she's so cu—"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I have enough on my hands with you two constantly running about. I don't need some mutt running around with you."

"I'll take care of her myself. I can bathe her, train her, everything. You will never have to worry about her."

Achilles sighed, pressing his mouth into a line. "Oh, fine." He grumbled. "But if that dog ever jumps on my lap it'll be out of here before you can blink."

"_Merci, _Achilles!" Jacqueline grinned and ran up to her room. She went into her bathroom and set the pup down. "I'll name you…Bisou." She smiled as the dog licked her hand, and then promptly started gnawing her fingers. "Okay, let's get you washed up."

-o-

"I'm back." Connor announced, not overly loudly. He brought the brace of hares to the kitchen and set them on the table.

"Oh, good." Achilles hobbled around the corner. "The girl's brought some mutt in the house. I don't know where she's gone with it, but you best go make sure she's not making too much of a mess."

"A dog?" Connor asked, walking out to the stairs.

"Yes. Now go, I heard water. God knows what she's doing." The old man shook his head and walked back into his study.

Connor went up to the second story and knocked on her door. "Jacqueline?" There was no answer. "Jacqueline?"

After a moment of indecision, he opened the door. Her room was slightly larger than his, no doubt a product of being in the manor first. The French flag hung over her bed. A few oranges sat on the bedside table, with an unlit candle and spare knife. A collection of arrows was shot into a bedpost, gathered close together—one had split another into two thin splints of pale wood. Scattered on a table before the hearth were various pieces of parchment. On them were scrawled odd things with black ink: a bird, a horse, the edge of a forest, a blade. There was one of him, as well. He was flattered, but dare not touch any of the pictures. It felt a violation of her privacy to even be in her room.

He turned his attention to an open door, which led to what looked like a bathroom. "Jacqueline?" He looked around the corner and withdrew with a short yelp of surprise.

She was kneeling at her bath, stripped down to her bodice and short petticoat, and half soaked in water. A flash of heat ran up Connor's neck and he put a hand up to shield his eyes.

"Oh, Connor! Look who I found!" He risked a glance. Jacqueline held a happy-looking puppy up in one hand; the collie was soaked to the bone and wagging its little tail. "Isn't she _cute?_ I've named her Bisou. Go on, say _salut _to Connor!"

He looked down at the puppy, splashing water as it pounced on his feet. "Where did you find her?"

"By the stables. I nearly stepped on her when I went out to feed Blanche." Jacqueline picked up the tiny pup and kissed the top of her head. That petticoat really was far too short. It was a good thing his robes were so loose. "Now look! Another addition to our _curieux petite famille._"

"She is…" He searched for the right word. "Energetic. Achilles is concerned that you are going to wreck the house."

"He didn't want me to keep her, but look who won _that _argument, ha ha." She said the words rather than actually laughing. She walked past him into the main room, and he avoided her as though she carried the plague. Bisou wriggled from her grip and rolled around in front of the warm hearth. Jacqueline sat on the rug, plucking at her wet skirt. He had not seen her legs without stockings. They were pale, like the rest of her skin, and lean.

"Um, I should…let you get dressed." Connor said, still trying his best not to look at her.

"Hm? Oh!" Her cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry, I didn't even realise—oh, gosh…" She stood and quickly pulled on a dressing gown. "I-I'll just…" Still blushing to her ears, she fled to her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

-O-

"What is your village like?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you speak of it every now and then. Often fondly. What was it like living there?"

"Different than living here. My people live off the land, and take only what we must to survive. It was a simple, earthly life. I find myself missing it sometimes. I had a good friend that I left behind when I came to Achilles."

"What about your mother?"

"She died long ago, by the hand of Charles Lee and the word of my father."

"I'm sorry."

"It is not your fault. There is no need to apologise."

"Okay."

A peaceful pause descended on them. They lay on the roof of the manor, staring at the sky. It was one of the last warm days of the year. The scent of winter and late autumn hung in the air, mingling with oranges. It always smelled of oranges now. It was unlikely the smell would ever be scrubbed from the manor. An owl was hooting mournfully in the trees.

"Where do you come from?"

"France. I don't miss it very much. I lived as a thief and stole to survive. My friends were part of the same gang as me. I guess my childhood was a little different than yours."

"Where were your parents?"

"Dead. Murdered by Templars. They were Assassins, too."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

Connor made an amused noise, and the conversation stopped again. It was the darkest part of the night. The stars were bright holes punched through a black ceiling. The moon shone down as bright as a dull sun and bathed everything in a grayish sheen. In Jacqueline's room below, Bisou could be heard yipping at some invisible threat.

"I'll help you."

"Help me what?"

"Find Charles Lee. I hate the Templars as much as you do. He needs to die. And…"

"And?"

"If…if you feel any sort of…hesitance toward killing your father, know that I'm here. All you have to do is ask."

"Thank you, Jacqueline. Truly. But killing Lee is something I must do."

"And your father?"

"I can kill him, too. I must."


	9. The Homestead II: Stress

_Quick update! I've gotten into the holiday mood, so the Christmas bit will be incorporated into this chapter. _

_W'P_

"_I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles." -Audrey Hepburn_

_-o-_

In the first week of December, Jacqueline came down with something. She didn't know what it was, but it was bad. She was burning hot and freezing cold at the same time. She vomited everything up, and continued to retch when nothing was left. Her pillow was soaked in sweat; she shivered in the sun and burned in the shade. Achilles did his best to diagnose her with his limited medical knowledge, but the best he could suggest was that she wait it out and keep hydrated. There was no doctor living on the Homestead.

So she waited it out. As best she could wait it out, at least. She suspected she drank her body weight and more in water. Bisou stayed in the room with her most of the time, whining and licking her pallid cheeks. Connor visited her, but she quickly shooed him away.

"I don't want you getting ill, too." She wheezed. Her voice was hoarse from purging.

"I'm not afraid of sickness." Connor protested.

"Trust me, you don't want this." She smiled weakly. "Go feed Blanche for me. I'll be up and about in no time."

She was _not_ up and about in no time. The illness carried on for another week with no sign of letting up. It progressed from vomiting to starving, and from starving to misery. It became less a matter of waiting out the bug and more about not dying. The most she could eat was a slice or two of bread, and water, of course. The malady was draining her. With each passing day she felt more tired, and hungrier, and weaker. Eventually, two weeks after coming down with it, she accepted the very real possibility that it may take her life.

Achilles let her believe whatever she wanted to believe. Connor came right out and spoke his opinion to her—but that was Connor. "That is ridiculous."

"It's not, though." Jacqueline coughed from a dry throat and took a shaky sip of water. "I really _could _die."

"You could, but you won't." He reached down to take her hand. It was a kind gesture, and she smiled. "I know you have survived worse than this."

"So far."

The sickness didn't get better, but it didn't get worse. The weight she had lost stayed off, but she didn't lose more. Bisou remained in her room, but stopped whining. She kept eating little bits of food, drinking copious amounts of water, and sleeping like a dead woman. The sun seemed to rise and fall outside her window, up and down, never stopping, and the shadows waxed and waned across her room. As she sweated out the mystery illness, she contemplated death.

It wasn't like she never thought of it. Dying in this manner, in bed and slain by an invisible virus, seemed a bit unfair after everything she had worked for. Achilles had taught her that as an Assassin, she must lose her fear of death and rather embrace it as a fact of life—the other side of the coin. That was where Templars and Assassins differed again. Templars feared death and worked to become immortal through control and power. Assassins accepted that everything died, from the tiniest bug to the most powerful man in the world, and learned to cherish what time was given on Earth. Even as a thief she had known that being killed by a stray arrow, or falling off a roof, or being caught stealing, could mean the end, and she used that factor to motivate her. The instinct to stay alive was something she did not turn into fear. She turned it into fuel.

She considered praying. If God were merciful, would He spare her death? She was so young. There was so much she wanted to do! She wanted to fight and run again, and she wanted to see Bisou grow into a big dog. She wanted to see New York and walk amongst the people, and she wanted to live in the forest like a wild woman. She wanted to venture into the unknown blue on the _Aquila _and see Thomas again. Part of her wanted to fall in love and then see how that felt. Maybe she would be a femme fatale and break hearts across the Colonies, and see how _that _felt. But more than anything, she wanted to live.

And then one morning, she woke up and saw snow on her windowsill. She threw herself from bed to smile at the frozen countryside. All at once, her illness was gone, leaving only sticky hair and a very large appetite.

-O-

"What is it?" Connor skeptically held up the handful of long green leaves and white berries.

Jacqueline bent down to grab it away from him, tottering precariously on the stepladder she stood on. He leaned back up against the doorway to the kitchen. She stuck the plant on a nail over the doorway and jumped down. "You can ask Achilles. It's mistletoe."

"But you just told me what it is." He pointed out, following as she grabbed the stepladder and set it aside.

"_Ouais, _but it's more of a tradition than decoration." She smirked slightly. "Now, I am going to take Bisou hunting. Do you know what "_bisou_" means in French?" She walked to the door and took her winter cloak from the hook, pulling the hood up and securing her bow over her shoulder.

"No."

"It means…" She paused. Bisou, who had grown considerably in just a few weeks, whined and jumped up to put her paws on her hip. "Well, I'll tell you when I return."

Connor frowned into the flurries of snow that dashed into the house as she left the house. He searched the house and found Achilles where he normally was during December; in his study, reading to hide from Jacqueline's vicious, merciless holiday cheer.

"Achilles, what is the tradition behind mistletoe?" He inquired, after knocking to announce his presence.

The old man looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"

"Jacqueline has hung some over the door to the kitchen, and told me to ask you."

Achilles sighed and sat back in his chair. "That girl…I'm not going to go into detail. Just don't get caught in the kitchen doorway with her."

"Why not?"

"Just…don't." Achilles grumbled and opened his book. "I've got enough to deal with already."

-o-

Jacqueline returned a few hours later. It was the first real hunt she had taken Bisou on, and she was pleased with the dog. She had proven herself to be a good hunter, and had gotten two hares by herself. They walked back to the manor, Bisou happily pouncing through the snow pressing her bloodied mouth to the open ends of fallen trees or rabbit holes. The dog stopped and started digging in a seemingly random place, and she had to be whistled for.

At the front door to the manor, she saw a couple familiar faces. "_Bonjour_, Faulkner, Thomas." She said, walking up the steps to the house. "What brings you up to our hill?"

"Came to drop off a litt'l present for you'n the boy." Faulkner held up a couple puffy, uneven packages, sloppily wrapped in brown parchment and tied with twine. "Celebratin' the season n' all."

"Oh, thank you." Jacqueline smiled and took the gifts, but faltered. "I'm afraid I don't have anything in return." She held up her brace. "You could have a hare…"

"Ah, don't be daft." Faulkner waved her off. "It's all in the season."

"Then stay for dinner. Both of you can." She opened the door and let them in. "Just…wait around. I'm going to cook."

"Hey!" A call behind her made her turn and see Terry, the lumberjack who had nearly drowned last winter, huffing up through the snow to her.

"Hello, Terry."

"You lot going to celebrate Christmas this year? The misses wanted me to check with one of you up here."

"Yes, I was just about to start cooking dinner. Feel free to bring Godfrey and your wives." She said, starting back toward the manor. "I'm sorry, but I really have a lot to do today."

"Oh, o'course. We'll see you tonight, then." The ginger man started back through his trail in the deep snow.

-o-

"This was the worst decision ever!" Jacqueline exclaimed. After inviting their neighbors from down the hill for dinner, and having Faulkner and Thomas in the house as well, she had gone into a frenzy of cooking. Much to his chagrin, she had recruited Connor as her deputy, and had him peeling carrots at a lightning fast pace.

"What was I thinking?" She continued, harried and stumbling through the kitchen. "I can't host a Christmas party! Achilles is going to murder me!"

"He seems fine with it so far." Connor commented, for once being the cool-headed one. "I think he is glad to have guests besides us."

"We aren't guests, we live here!" She growled, practically throwing a roast hare into the oven. She clutched at her braid, staring at the train wreck they had made of the kitchen, the steaming pots and smells, and Connor watched her warily. He could tell she was ready to snap. Bisou was gnawing on a small bone. Even as he watched, Faulkner snuck into the room and grabbed another bottle of their wine. In the dining room, he could hear the lumberjacks laughing rambunctiously.

"I need some air." Slamming the oven door closed, Jacqueline stalked out of the kitchen and out the back door.

Connor waited a moment before following her. She had left the door ajar, and he closed it behind him. It couldn't have been a more picturesque Christmas Eve. It was dark already, and he could see a puff of white in the black world from his breath. The footsteps from Jacqueline stopped on the porch, but there were pieces of snow scattered away from the wall of the manor. He climbed, following the vertical trail, and saw her sitting on the roof.

"Are you okay?" He asked upon getting closer. It was snowing, and the white flakes were speckling her hair. She had not cut it once in the past year, and it now extended far down her back in a harried braid.

Jacqueline looked over her shoulder. "I'm fine. The fresh air helps."

"I can finish cooking if you want to rest." He sat next to her and looked out at the snowy countryside.

"That's okay." She murmured, without looking at him. She wasn't even looking at anything, just staring into space. "I may as well see tonight through. Thank you for going along with Christmas these past years, by the way. I know you don't celebrate it."

"I don't mind. It is very festive. The religious aspect is…beside the point."

"That's true. It's more about getting together, being a little nicer, all that."

"Are you a Christian?"

"I was." She sighed, leaving a cloud of fog to float up into the black sky. "I guess I still am. Time will tell."

There was a peaceful lull. The lumberjacks in the dining room below could still be heard. The light from the house cast bright shapes out of the windows onto the snow. After a few minutes, Jacqueline quietly stood and slid back down the steep side of the roof, and disappeared over the edge in whirl of snow. He followed her a moment later and walked into the relatively warm manor. She was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, her face flushed, breathing as though she had just taken a run. When she saw him approach, she blushed an even deeper shade of scarlet and glanced above them, at the little sprig of green flora.

She fled the doorway before he could approach, stepping over to her dog, still curled up and gnawing on rabbit bones. "Did I tell you what "_bisou" _means?"

"No."

"It…" She trailed off, and sniffed suspiciously. "Do you smell burning?"

It took a few seconds before the words registered, and by that time she was already off to the stove, throwing open the oven door to check on the hare. It was fine, but something, perhaps butter, had splashed from the pan. Smoke billowed from the oven, and she stepped back, waving a hand in front of her face. Connor hurried to open a few windows, or Achilles would have both their heads for burning down his house. A steady stream of what sounded like foul curses in French followed Jacqueline as she used her cloak to wave the smoke off.

"Everything all right in here?" Diana, Terry's wife, poked her head in the door. Her eyes widened at the sight of the smoke and re-stressed Jacqueline. "Oh, dear! Here, let me help."

Jacqueline waved a hand. "Oh, no, you're guests. I couldn't possibly…"

"It's no trouble, and we can't be very good guests if the dinner's burnt, can we?" The pretty ginger woman hurried in and inspected the damage. "Ah, 'tis not much. And the hare's not been hurt."

She went about the kitchen in a manner that suggested she had been in many sticky cooking situations, handling the scene with robotic efficiency. Jacqueline stepped away, clutching a stained towel and seeming to shrink in size. Bisou picked up a hind leg in her mouth and nudged Jacqueline's knee. She took it and tossed it away for the dog to fetch. Still looking dazed, she retrieved a bottle of champagne and several glasses, and drifted away into the dining room.

-O-

The next morning, Connor woke late. Their guests had stayed into the evening, bringing food and drink of their own, which made far too much for just the nine of them. He hadn't seen Jacqueline since she had fled the previous night with most of a bottle of champagne, looking stressed and distant. Achilles, upon asking, had not seen her either.

Groggy and tired, Connor left his room and knocked on Jacqueline's door. There was no answer. He tried again, and got the same lack of response. Instead of knocking again, he tentatively opened the door. His fellow Assassin was asleep on the rug in front of the fireplace, with the drained champagne bottle in a limp hand and a large blanket of fur draped over herself. It was slumped down her shoulder to expose her back.

He wasn't even surprised anymore. It would be hypocritical of him, anyway, as he slept shirtless. He stepped forward and, being painfully careful to keep the fur around her, picked her up. She stirred but did not wake. It was a task to get the door to her bedroom open, and when he did, he had to quirk his head. In her bed was Bisou, sprawled out, large tongue lolling on her pillow and long-haired tail flopping occasionally and lazily in her sleep. Why their places were switched, he may never know.

As he nudged the big dog from the bed, Jacqueline crunched her eyes and wrinkled the bridge of her nose. "Connor," She groaned. "Why does my head hurt?"

"You drank a lot of champagne. Most of a bottle."

"Oh." She smirked dryly, and then grimaced. "It feels like a horse kicked me."

"Perhaps you should stay away from alcohol for a while." He advised, flipping her pillow over and setting her in bed. "Get some sleep."

Jacqueline chuckled quietly, tugging her blankets around herself. "Since when did you become the voice of reason, and I the reckless one?"

"Since you tried hosting an entire Christmas party last night."

At that, she sat up with a gasp. "It's Christmas morning!" The pillows sighed as she sank back into them. "I didn't get you or Achilles anything."

"If it helps, we did not get you anything either." He smiled briefly and turned to go.

"Connor, wait." She reached out and grabbed his arm before he could leave. "I forgot to tell you._ Bisou…_" She yawned and winced at the same time. "It means 'kiss.'" And she dropped back into slumber.


	10. A Call to Arms

"_Don't you think it's time for you and me to make some history? Tell me now what you say cause we can take anything. Just because we're growing up, it doesn't mean we've had enough; When times are hard we'll smile and say we're not afraid of anything (cause we feel young and wild)!" –Royal Teeth, "Wild"_

_-o-_

"Go on. I can take it."

"We have been over this countless times. I am not going to hit you."

"Come on, this is the final test! Ally on ally, the two most skillful fighters east of the Mississippi, dueling one-on-one to the surrender! You usually have to pay for this kind of thing."

Jacqueline bounced eagerly on her toes, waving her fists. Officially out of her teens by a couple years, she was a grown woman. Dark hair contrasted a fair, pale face with light freckles of past summers, though it was tied back in her trademark braid that now reached to her lower back. Navy eyes glinted from lashes to match her hair. Where Connor was rugged, brutal, no-nonsense and powerful, she was fast and beautiful and precise, with perhaps too much showmanship but no less deadly than her fellow Assassin. They were a wolf and a fox, comrades in arms, and perfectly matched in skill.

"Are you afraid I'll win?" Jacqueline dared, and began ticking off requirements on her fingers. "No drawing serious blood. No killing, obviously. No serious injuries, like broken bones. No guns or arrows. First person pinned loses."

Connor scratched the back of his neck, like he was considering it. His features had grown from their smooth boyishness to a more rugged, handsome persona. His hair had also finally grown out, and he kept most of it back in a messy ponytail, excepting that one piece he had braided by his temple. "One fight, then."

"Ah!" Jacqueline laughed and picked up the straw dummy to move it out of the way. "Excellent! Your strength on my speed. This will be interesting. So, you stand at the edge of the circle, there—okay, good. Now I'll stand here."

At an equal distance they now stood, like a formal duel. Connor held out his hands. "Now?" He asked dryly.

"Shut up, I was getting to that. Now in three…two…one…go!"

The first steps were taken, and the fight not even begun, when Achilles called from the steps. "Spare a moment, you two?"

Jacqueline made a noise of exasperation, while Connor chuckled. She slapped his arm and they stepped over to join Achilles. He was holding an interesting contraption. It was a long length of rope, and tied to one end was a foot-long flint dagger. Connor weighed it experimentally in his hands and began whirling the end.

"What is it?" He asked.

"A Sheng Biao, or rope dart, if you prefer. One of the many plans given to us by Shao Jun to—"

Connor accidentally let go, and the swinging dagger slammed several inches into a wooden beam. Achilles levelled a chastising look at him. "Sorry."

"Oh, I am going to have so much fun with this." Jacqueline yanked the rope dart from the wall and wound it back up so it hung on her belt. Above them, someone knocked on the front door. "I'll get it."

She trotted upstairs and opened the door. Standing on the step was a man in full Native garb, complete with braided hair, feathers, woven clothes and a carved hatchet at his side. Her unease of strangers at the door took over, and she fell back a step.

"Good afternoon." He said, a little uncomfortably, as though he did not speak English often. "Does a man of my descent live here?"

"Uh…Connor?" Jacqueline called over her shoulder, not taking her eyes from him. "I think someone's here for you."

He was already there, and she quickly stepped aside. "Kanen'tó:kon?"

"Yes, my friend." The man nodded.

Connor stepped outside with a small grin, showing a rare flash of teeth. "What brings you here?" He grew more serious. "Is the village all right?"

"For now." Kanen'tö:kon said solemnly.

"What do you mean? What has happened?"

"Men came. Claiming we have to leave. They said that the land was being sold and that the Confederacy had consented. We sent an envoy, but they would not listen."

"You must refuse!" Connor exclaimed, with surprising vehemence.

"We cannot oppose the sachem. But you are right as well. We cannot give up our home."

"Do you have a name? Do you know who is responsible?"

"He is called William Johnson." The English name was awkward on Kanen'tó:kon's tongue.

"Where is Johnson now?" Connor growled, stepping forward.

"In Boston, making preparations for the sale."

"Sale?" Connor raised his voice. "This is theft!"

"Connor, take care. These men are powerful." Achilles had joined their group, leaning heavily on his cane in the doorway. Bisou nuzzled her nose past his leg, and then managed to squeeze her huge body out the doorway to sniff at Kanen'tó:kon's foot.

"What would you have me do?" He demanded. "I made a promise to my people!"

Achilles bowed his head and let out a long, tired sigh. "If you insist upon this course of action, seek out Sam Adams in Boston. He'll be able to help."

"I'll accompany you." Jacqueline added, with a pat to his shoulder. "You won't have to do this alone."

Connor nodded and held out his hand to Kanen'tó:kon, who handed over the hatchet at his belt. In one smooth movement, he swung the weapon out so it lodged deeply into one of the finely painted white columns on the porch. "What have you done?!" Achilles asked, almost tiredly.

"When my people go to war, a hatchet is buried in a post to signify its start." He explained. "When the threat is ended, the hatchet is removed."

Achilles sighed, fumbling for a proper response. "You could have used a tree!"

Connor paid little heed. He walked around the front of the house toward the stables. "We ride for Boston at once. Kanen'tó:kon, please look after the village until I am able to stop Johnson."

"Of course, my friend." He also replied in something long and intricate, clearly in their native language. Connor answered in kind, and his friend took his leave.

Jacqueline hopped the fence to the stables and stalked into the barn. She magnetised to Blanche, her white mare, and began saddling her. "We can reach Boston by nightfall if we ride hard. Will food be an issue?"

"No," Connor said shortly. His beige horse was already ready, and he gave its side a small pat. "I can hunt."

She pursed her lips. "I mean, do you have money?"

"Oh. No."

"Neither do I. Well, maybe a few pounds left over from that time during the Boston Massacre." She tied her quiver to Blanche's side; it was a lot easier to shoot on horseback that way. "Before we go, I need to grab some things."

She jogged back into the manor and up to her room, a saddlebag in one hand. Ransacking her own room, she stuffed a few pieces of parchment, a quill and inkwell, several oranges, and a spare knife that she'd stabbed into her bedside table to keep an old Queen of Hearts card pinned down. After a moment of consideration, she picked the card up and tucked it face out into the edge of her stocking, on the side of her thigh.

"Bye, Achilles!" She called, pattering down the stairs. It was exciting—real action! An adventure to save Connor's village!

"Be careful out there, girl." He warned, appearing next to the front door. "And keep an eye on Connor. He doesn't know with whom he's meddling. You _must_ be his voice of reason."

"I will be. I promise." She assured him. "_À bientôt._" Her mentor gave her a weary smile, which she returned with a bright one of her own before dashing back outside. Connor was sitting in the saddle of his horse, holding the reins of hers. She took a running start and nearly leapt into the saddle.

"Oh!" She exclaimed, tugging the reins so Blanche wouldn't just dart off. "What about Bisou?"

"We cannot afford to take her with us." Connor said. He was clearly anxious to get on the road. The dog in question came trotting out of the house and looked up at Jacqueline in her saddle.

"Aw…all right." She said reluctantly, and reached down to scratch behind her ears. "Bye, girl." Bisou panted obliviously and whined a little in her throat.

Connor snapped the reins of his horse, and cantered off. Jacqueline gave a yell and spurred Blanche on, galloping after him. It was midmorning, and everything seemed extra bright and saturated with colour. The circumstances and reason for their leaving was grim and time sensitive, but it was invigorating to be on the road—to be doing something. Anything.

-o-

They didn't reach Boston by nightfall. Camp was made on the frontier, if it could be called a camp. It was just a tiny campfire they sat near before sleeping. Connor was obviously unhappy about it, but Jacqueline was in a very optimistic mood and adamantly refused to look on the down side.

"Think of it this way, Ratonhnhaké:ton." She said, stirring their little fire. "Johnson's preparations will take far longer than it will take us to reach the city."

"He should not have time to make any _preparations _at all." He said the word like it was a curse. "We could still ride through the night. Boston is not far."

"Do you _want _to get attacked by wolves?" She sighed, and decided to try and lighten the mood. "You still owe me a fight."

Connor was sitting with his knees up, arms crossed on top of them, and at her statement he rested his forehead on his arms with a sigh. "Now?"

"Why not now?"

He was trying to find a reason, but she could tell by his face that he couldn't think of a good one. She made a noise of victory and got to her feet. For the second time that day, they were facing off. "I want your best shot." Jacqueline said, unclipping her weapons belt.

"Very well." Connor took off his hidden blades and tossed them aside. "When—?"

The question was cut off when she dove forward and tackled him. He toppled back with a surprised "oof!" Before he could make a grab at her, she had rolled away and had fallen into a defensive pose. He swung at her, but she jumped back. For a minute or two they circled, ready to lash out or defend themselves if need be. Then she lunged at him, feigned left, but he intercepted her this time and threw her back. She somersaulted backwards, stopped and used the momentum to slam into him again. This pattern continued a few more times, until at last Connor made the offensive move.

In two large steps he was right by her, and his fist connected with her stomach. She was shocked; it was easy to forget that despite his size he was only slightly slower than her. The punch was drawn, obviously, or she would probably have had to deal with a broken rib or two. She bowed over with a huff, but she was able to block his next blow with her forearm and deal one of her own. It wasn't as strong, because unlike him she wasn't a solid wall of Native American muscle, but it was enough to give him pause while she crouched and pulled his feet out from under him.

Before she could pounce him, he caught her mid-air and threw her to the side. She rolled in the grass and fumbled to her feet. A wild grin was on her face, despite the new scratches, and she ran back at him, undeterred. He was purposely deflecting her, just pushing her away. That was fine by her; there was already going to be a bruise on her stomach from that punch. It was also a violent kind of fun: she would charge him, he would toss her away, it would repeat. She threw a few more punches, sharp and accurate, and flipped away before he could grab her. One landed on his jaw, and it hurt her hand more than it probably hurt him.

After what might have been half an hour, maybe more, they were both exhausted. They were each an immoveable object, and an unstoppable force. The fight deteriorated from their almost staged, harmless moves into formless scrabbling in an attempt to even land a hit on the other. Drenched in sweat and bruised from head to toe, they called a truce when Jacqueline shoved Connor into their campfire by accident and he subsequently threw her right over his shoulder and knocked the breath out of her.

"Enough!" She wheezed, trying to suck in a breath. "It's a tie. Enough."

Connor patted his feet off, where the fire had singed his boots, and promptly sat down. He wiped a hand across his forehead and pointed at her accusatorially. "This was your idea."

"_Ouais, _and it was fun." She said defensively, taking a few deep breaths. "We're both just too good." He only grinned briefly and nodded in response. She pushed a few sticks into the fire that had been partially stomped out and curled up by it. "We should sleep."


	11. A Mind is a Terrible Thing

_I think it worthwhile to note that since Jacqueline learned Connor's real name first, she calls him that in private, but calls him by Connor when in company, for simplicity's sake. _

_Also, thank you to all the wonderful reviewers of the past few chapters! You guys really keep me going. _

_W'P_

"_Dreams are answers to questions we haven't yet figured out how to ask." -X-Files_

-o-

She was standing in the forest, and yet, she was not. There was the campfire, burnt out and cold, and there was Connor's sleeping form a few feet away. It was all the same as when she had fallen asleep, but felt unreal and far away. Everything was dark, as though the stars and moon had been snuffed out. She, however, was the only thing that looked real and colourful. For a few minutes Jacqueline shifted between feet, unsure of what to do. Despite the obvious dream-like atmosphere to it all, her surroundings felt very real.

Reality skipped on its hinges for a moment, a disorienting and disjointed skipping, like the world had briefly been knocked out of orbit. When time got a hold of itself, a woman was standing in the grass with her. She had an ageless quality to her looks; lovely, but with a hooked nose and cold eyes like a judge. Her garments were unlike anything Jacqueline had seen, flowing and white, but oddly futuristic. The clothing and her skin were almost the same colour, so she was like one constantly shifting, pale being.

"Hello." She greeted flatly. Her voice was haunting and echoed in the empty, dark glade.

"Er…hello." Jacqueline greeted back. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered that they were speaking French, and appreciated the gesture. "Where am I?"

"Where you were." The woman drifted closer. "Worry not. This is but a dream."

"Can't I wake myself?"

"It is not that kind of dream." Her cryptic answers were doing nothing to clear the confusion Jacqueline felt, but she didn't speak as the woman continued. "I have watched you, daughter, and I am pleased with your progress."

"Daughter?" Jacqueline said suspiciously. "You are not my mother."

"No. You are Her daughter. And you have found His son. This is good."

She rubbed her temples and sighed. "Please, could you explain who you are? What do you want from me?"

"I will tell you, child. In due time. For now, you _must _assist him. If you do not, the consequences will be devastating for you, and for the future." She cast a hand out, and a vision appeared in the air, gold and shimmering. In it, she watched a city burn. "You have found him, and for that you are well."

"Who is this "him" you keep speaking of? What disaster?" The images on the shining gold screen changed every few seconds, and now it lingered on the Templar cross.

"The Son." The woman insisted, walking even closer. Jacqueline edged away. Close proximity with the lady gave her an uneasy feeling, like the prickling on the back of one's neck when one is being watched. "His quest will stop the slaughter of many, but only with your assistance. Help him, or he will stray from his task…and fail."

The image of wooden crosses over graves in the snow appeared, and a shiver rattled down the Assassin's spine. "Why me?" She asked. "I am no one special."

"Wait," The woman swept up to Jacqueline before she could move away. "Your time will come." She cast a hand behind her, and the auriferous screen vanished.

Jacqueline wavered where she stood and crumpled to the ground, suddenly cripplingly tired. The hem of the woman's bright, surreal robes drifted an inch or two above the ground. She was barefoot. As she dropped into unconsciousness again, she heard the woman's voice a final time. It was faint now, as though from a long distance away.

"Find your purpose…daughter of Eve."

-o-

Jacqueline gasped awake, sitting upright and instinctively groping around in the damp grass for her knife. The blade sang from its sheathe in the quiet night, reflecting the moon from its clean surface. Her breathing stayed wary and adrenaline-fueled for a few more minutes before she allowed herself to remember that this was real life, and the mysterious woman was gone. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, still tied back. To her shame, her hand was shaking, so she held it still with her other.

Something in the grass shifted, and she flinched, but it was only Connor. He squinted at her tiredly and sat up on one elbow. His hair was tousseled from its normal ponytail, and stuck up at odd angles around his face in a rather endearing fashion. "Jacqueline? Are you all right?"

For a moment she considered telling him about the dream-vision. Perhaps he would know something about the woman. Was this the "spirit" he had spoken of on that stormy night, so long ago when he had arrived at the manor? But she thought it best to keep it to herself for the time being. It was only a dream, after all, and with all the excitement it was entirely possible her mind was running rampant.

"Jacqueline." Connor said, more firmly now. She must have been quiet too long. "What's wrong?"

"Um…nothing. I'm fine." She laid back down on her side to face the dead fire and inhaled the scent of the damp grass. "It was only a dream."

-o-

Having gotten no further sleep the previous night, Jacqueline was drawn and exhausted when they continued on the road, and it showed. Connor said nothing but it was clear he was thinking deeply. A man of few words, he was even quieter while travelling. To pass the time, and incidentally keep herself awake, she sang an old song she had learned in Bayonne.

"_Au bout de cinq à six semaines, les vivres vin-vin-vinrent à manquer. Ohé, ohé…" _She almost whispered the lyrics to herself. "_On tira z'à la courte paille, pour savoir qui-qui-qui serait mange. Ohé, ohé…"_

"What is it about?" Connor asked finally. "The song you sing?"

Jacqueline sighed. "It is a children's song. It tells the tale of a crew that runs low on rations and draws straws to see who will be eaten. The youngest boy is picked, and he prays to the Virgin Mary for a miracle to save him. Before he can be eaten, fish leap from the sea and into the ship, saving his life."

"That is…dark, for a children's song." He decided. "But at least it has a good ending."

She chuckled and rubbed her eyes, burning with lack of sleep. "_Oui, _well, that is France for you. I'm sorry, it must be distracting. I can stop if it annoys you."

"I do not mind." He said, with a light smile. His mouth was all she could see, as he had put his hood up. She yawned, but continued singing until the song had finished, with its upbeat end.

By the time she had ended the tune Boston was in view. The people came before the city, walking along the road and moving aside as they passed. Then there were farm animals in the rural outskirts. Roosters clucked and flapped flightlessly from their path. Pigs and cattle were penned in a few metres from the road in ramshackle fences that were often accompanied by little stalls selling fruit or fish. The ocean was a teal strip against the shore that disappeared behind the walls of the city as they continued on.

They carefully guided their horses through the busy city, asking here and there for Samuel Adams' location. It was not by directions but by chance that they found him; standing in a group of other men whom were all speaking in hushed, angry and urgent tones. It was clear the conversation would soon take a turn for the ugly unless stopped.

Connor dismounted, and Jacqueline did as well, but she lingered back and held the horses' reins, and prepared to intervene. The two men had ended on a decent note, but one could never be too sure. Adams looked up as they approached.

"Ah, Connor, hello again. And Jacqueline, of course." He added, nodding to her. "What brings you two to Boston?"

"You." Connor said simply.

Adams glanced back at the other men. "If you would excuse us, gentlemen." He gestured for them to follow. "Thank you. That conversation was about to turn unpleasant. Now, what can I do for you?"

"We were hoping you could help us locate William Johnson." Connor said. Jacqueline led the horses along behind them, but could hear the conversation fine.

"Of course. I'm headed to a meeting with some men who should be able to help. Why don't you come along?" They turned down a side street, and there was a lull in conversation. "It's good to see the people finally taking a stand against injustice…"

"Says the man who owns a slave."

Adams chuckled. "Who, Surry? I practise what I preach, my friend. She's not a slave, but a freed woman…at least on paper. Men's minds are not so easily turned. It's a tragedy that for all our progress, still we cling to such barbarism."

"Why not speak out?" Jacqueline spoke for the first time since entering the city. "You hold a position of some influence. Surely people would listen."

"We must focus first on defending _our _rights. When all this is done we'll have the luxury of addressing these other matters."

"You speak as though your condition is equal to that of the slaves'. It is not." Connor pointed out.

"Tell that to my neighbor, who was compelled to quarter British troops. Or to my friend, whose store was closed because he displeased the Crown. The people here are no freer than Surry."

The three stopped in a more open square, where a commotion was going on. In one of the buildings, a contingent of redcoats was at the door of the house. A man in one of the upper windows was yelling at them furiously about taxes and how it was "his house." He vanished for a moment and came back to dump a chamber pot down at the feet of one of the taxmen. The redcoats started smashing in the windows, and at the same time the door flew open and the man tackled the taxman on his porch.

"I trust the mounting evidence is proof enough, my friends." Adams said to them.

"Continue on. I will meet you at our destination." Connor stopped Jacqueline from handing the reins to Adams. "You too."

Her nostrils flared. "Why? I'm just as skilled as you—"

"I know. But you have not slept well and are in no shape to fight. You can barely stand. Go with Samuel for now."

She made a couple unhappy faces, but led the horses on while Connor went to take care of the tax collectors. They walked along the streets without speaking for a while. "So, how have you been?" Adams asked after a while.

"I've been well, _merci._ And you?"

"As well as I can be." He paused. "I know it's not my place to pry, but you and Connor…"

Jacqueline glanced sidelong at him. "Yes?"

"You seem rather…close." He waved a hand dismissively. "I'm jumping to conclusions. It's just an observation, you should know. No offense meant."

"None taken. That is true, but not in the way that you think." She was too tired to be embarrassed.

"I see. Well, I'll just leave it at that. It's not my business."

The rest of the walk to the tavern was short. Adams went inside the little place while she made sure the horses were secured to the posts outside. Inside, she found him speaking with another man behind the bar. He had small, smart features and a receding gray hairline.

"Ah, speak of the devil." Adams said as she walked in. "Jacqueline, allow me to introduce you to William Molyneux, the owner of this pub, and a man equally interested in our cause."

"A pleasure." Jacqueline nodded to him. "I see that the tax collectors are becoming a problem."

"Yes, a problem with which we," Here Adams gestured to himself and Molyneux. "Were hoping you and Connor could help with."

"What do you want us to do? Connor has his own agenda concerning William Johnson."

"Well, luckily for you, Johnson is a concern of ours as well." The door to the tavern opened and Connor walked in and they all looked up. "Connor! I'd like for you to meet some like-minded friends. The owner of this fine establishment, William Molyneux, and the manager and chef of his newest venture, Stephane Chapheu."

A man walked out of the kitchen, who Jacqueline recognised to be the man who had been in the fight with the taxmen. He had a cloth tied around his head and a scruffy beard on his chin. A very large butcher's cleaver hung at his side. "Ah, Connor and I just had a ball with some Redcoats enforcing some taxmen outside my home!"

Jacqueline perked up at the sound of his heavy French accent. "Are you from France, or the north?" She asked in her native tongue.

He seemed equally pleased. "France! It is good to hear someone else from the homeland in this godforsaken city." He scoffed in the same language. "There is no special like for us here, my friend, with the Redcoats especially."

"Well, I hope that will change soon." It felt good to speak conversationally after so long without anyone to speak to.

"The collectors grow bolder and more forceful." Molyneux said, slapping his hand down on the bar, stopping the conversation. "Something we must address, Samuel."

Adams nodded. "Then let us raise a banner. Something to let the people know that they are not alone. The docks are an angry place of late, protestors picketing the latest shipment of British tea. The eyes of the city are upon that stage…"

"A Bostonian without his tea is a dangerous beast!" Chapheu exclaimed, in English now.

Connor was standing to the side, a little behind Jacqueline, and was picking at the edges of his fingerless gloves. She smacked his hand to get him to stop. "William Johnson is smuggling the tea off the ships—one of his men tried to sell me this." Molyneux held up a white cloth bag and tossed it to the bar. "A sample of what I refused, but it's form those ships—no mistaking the stamp. He's charging a King's ransom, must be he's making a mint off those who buy it."

"Where is he now?" Connor asked.

"I've never met the man."

"May I ask why you seek him, Connor?" Adams asked, head inclined and eye narrowed.

"He intends to purchase the land upon which my village stands without the consent of my people." He was picking the seams of his gloves again, and Jacqueline again stopped him.

"No doubt the revenue from his little smuggling endeavor is financing the acquisition." Adams paused, thinking. "A tax enforced on tea grants a boon to smugglers. I'll wager the same men who levy the taxes are selling the tea. A stage requires a spectacle and I may know the play." He turned to the Assassins. "Both of you go to the docks, and see to the destruction of the tea. If you should need us, return here."


	12. Communicating

_Oops! I did some research and realised I made a mistake with Stephane! He actually _was _born in Canada, haha. Ah, well. Details. If it wasn't already obvious, I love Stephane. He's awesome._

_God, I am such a bloody tease. I love the teasing._

_Happy Holidays!_

_W'P_

"_She's a rebel, she's a saint, she's the salt of the earth and she's dangerous. She's a rebel, vigilante, missing link on the brink of destruction. […] She's the symbol of resistance, and she's holding on my heart like a hand grenade." –Green Day, "She's A Rebel"._

_-o-_

"Ow!" Jacqueline moved the hot sugar roll between hands until it cooled. She had thought that Samuel's tea mission was a little far-fetched and a lot of work at that, but it gave her a chance to wander the city a little. Connor had gone his own way to intercept some of the other smugglers, while she moved north to do the same. Having no money, she assumed it would be hard to get food, but she quickly discovered that she had three valuable assets that could get her nearly anything she wanted: she was young, she was attractive, and most importantly, she was female. It took her all of a few minutes to get the sugar roll off the baker, and all she had to do was flutter her eyelashes a little. The side of her mouth quirked up in amusement. Maybe it would work on Connor.

Casually, she "accidentally" bumped into a man carrying a large crate who was walking the opposite direction. The box tumbled out of his hands and to the ground, where it splintered apart. "Oi! Watch it!" He snapped.

"Sorry." She said, not very apologetically. Glancing back to be sure that it was in fact the right box of smuggled goods that had spilled, she continued on.

The city was bustling and happy; it was invigorating in a way. Her last extended stay at Boston had been right before one of the worst events in its short history, so she had been a tad bit wary. This was much better. The chatter and call of merchants was music to her ears. A stray dog trotted, whining, at her heels, and she dropped it a piece of the roll. She wandered here and there for the rest of the afternoon, looking in little shops and generally getting acquainted with the city.

Having grown up in a situation that forced her to learn fast or die, one of the first things that she'd been taught was that a city was alive. It lived, and breathed, and sometimes it would get sick or infected. Cities had big things that they told everyone, like church towers and townhouses. But they also had little dark secrets, like side alleys and tunnels. She liked the little secrets. Like people, the things they don't tell you are in some ways more revealing than the things they do tell you.

So as the sun sank below the horizon of beautiful buildings and the ocean, she crept into the dark alleys. Probing, asking the matted grass and squeaking, fat rats what they knew. She stalked through the dark side streets, ducking under any lit windows and listening to the faraway ocean waves and barking dogs. Before she knew it, she was deposited on the harbour. On the other side of the wharf, she saw Connor, stepping onto the dock as though he had just arrived, and she smiled. The city would always take her where she needed to go.

"The rest of the smugglers are taken care of." She said as they met in the middle. "Did you destroy the rest of the cargo?"

"Yes." He looked out to the two ships in the harbour, which held all the tea. They weren't alone; there were a few other night owls meandering along the waterside, including Samuel Adams and William Molineux, who seemed to be waiting for them to do something. With them were also Chapheu and another man she didn't know. "We must eliminate the guards on the ships."

"Right." She nodded to the one nearest the street she had come in. "I'll take this one. You do the other."

She turned to walk off, but Connor grabbed her upper arm. "Once we start destroying the tea, more Redcoats are going to turn up. Be prepared for a fight."

"I always am." She patted the hand on her arm, and he released her. They jogged off in opposite directions.

-o-

Connor took his time with the first two kills, because he knew once he was there, it was going to be a full firefight. He went around the dock house, along the edge of the wharf near the water, clinging with his fingers to the edge of the dock. The two targets had their backs to him, and he silently pulled himself up to flat ground and stabbed them both smoothly in the back of the neck.

Of course, he now stood in their places, and was spotted instantly. He ducked in time to dodge the first volley of shots and deflected the incoming sword of an officer. A quick flurry of stabs in the ribs and he had crumpled like a rag doll without anything inside. At almost the same time the officer fell, a single, loud gunshot rang out from the other ship. There was no time to slow his momentum, however, and he steadily took out each of the Redcoats, about a dozen in total. Brutally and efficiently, his feet quite literally splashed in a puddle of blood when he left the scene.

Jogging onto the ship, spattered in blood and panting, he saw Jacqueline on the other deck, fighting off six Regulars in her fast, acrobatic fashion. He rushed to assist her, but there was hardly any need by the time he got to her.

"Now the tea?" She asked, wiping her forehead.

"Now the tea." He confirmed. At the gangplank, Adams, Molineux, Chapheu and Revere were joining them on the ship. Each of them picked up a small stamped crate, walked to the edge of the ship, and dropped it into the water.

By the time Connor had gotten to the second crate, a crowd was gathering. A few dozen citisens at least, and still growing. Many were applauding or cheering. But with the citisens also came the redcoats, who were somewhat less happy about their endeavors. Soon, they were not alone on the ships. Footsteps rushed up toward them, making the ship sway with the added weight. Behind him somewhere, possibly the other ship that the two French members of their party had commandeered, he heard a yell and a gunshot.

He held the crate in one hand and chopped at the closest Regular with his tomahawk, and the man crumpled. Connor tossed the crate over so his hands were free, took out his pistol, and promptly shot an officer who was approaching an occupied Adams. He threw up his hidden blade in time to block an incoming sword swing from a Regular, spun him around and stabbed him with said blade.

As he was picking up a bayonet to stab a grenadier with, he glanced up, and had to pause for a moment. At the top of the other ship's highest mast, Jacqueline stood, swinging a rope dart. She let it fly, and it latched into a crossbeam above his head. She then jumped off the mast, swinging through the air and the space between ships, cape and skirts billowing. When she was nearly above him, she let go, executed a neat flip midair, and air assassinated the grenadier he had been targeting.

"Whew!" She was smiling. A drop of blood ran down her cheek and dripped from her chin like a teardrop. "This is fun!" And she was off again, tossing crates over as she went.

"Fun…?" He muttered. They were fighting for their lives. How could she possibly think it was _fun?_

Then the fight descended back around him, and he threw up his arm to stop an attack with his bracer. The air reeked of gunpowder and salt, with a hint of blood mixed in. But on shore, the crowd had grown to a size unheard-of, and their cheers of approval were almost deafening. Adams and Molineux were now doing most of the tea tossing, while he fought any and all redcoats who boarded the ship. They were not very challenging opponents—his faux fight with Jacqueline the previous night had been a tougher battle—but there were a lot of them.

The fight soon deteriorated into utter chaos. Just walking was a task, as he was constantly slipping in blood or tripping over redcoat bodies. He wondered how much tea the ship could possibly be carrying. They'd been on board for maybe twenty minutes at this point. Was anyone even bothering with the tea anymore? Apparently so, as Cheapheu jogged across to him with a final crate in his hands. Jacqueline strode along behind, her quiver now containing only three arrows. Blood was splashed in one long streak from her ribs to her forehead, across her face. The two French Assassins looked a little worse for the wear, being the only two on their other vessel.

"Now that was a good fight." Jacqueline picked blood from her eyelashes, blinking rapidly. "The tea has all been tossed, except for this one."

"We saved the last one for you." Chapheu said, handing the crate over. His accent was very thick, and oddly enough made Jacqueline's also sound heavier.

Connor accepted the crate, and his gaze was drawn off the wharf and across a small stretch of water. Standing in an abandoned market square, under the lamplight of a lantern stood Charles Lee, Benjamin Church and William Johnson themselves, glaring at the ships. Instead of running to kill them he walked to the edge of the ship without taking his eyes from the group. He raised the tea above his head, and the onlookers erupted into cheers. Still without looking away he pointedly dropped the crate straight over the edge.

The crowd that now surged at the shore went wild. Chapheu tapped his shoulder. "Best we get out of here, eh?"

Connor hesitated, still watching where the Templars had stood. Were they still nearby? Perhaps, if he ran, he could catch up with them. Lee had been _right there_…

"Connor?" Jacqueline's hand on his arm made him tear his gaze away. "Let's go."

-o-

There was a small celebration back at their "headquarters" tavern. There was still much work to be done, of course, but the first step had been a large and successful one. Everyone but Connor had a drink. He got one as well, but didn't have much of it. Jacqueline had come to realise that their first experience with alcohol had had different affects on them: it made her determined to overcome her intolerance, whereas it made him avoid it altogether.

The female Assassin clashed her tankard to Stephane's. "For justice!"

"For liberty!" They both drank. "I must say, you did a fine job fighting those Regulars today."

"As did you." Jacqueline replied, with a light cough. Their conversation was being spoken in all French, as they were both nostalgic for the language. The three Englishmen ignored them, and Connor simply glowered over his untouched ale. "Your food must try to run away, the way you wield that cleaver."

"My father was a cook." He shrugged. "I am a cook. I know how to swing a knife."

"Apparently." She finished off her ale before it got warm. "So, how is Montréal?"

"Wonderful!" Stephane exclaimed. "It is like another France! Not like here, where just our _accents_ are reason enough for prejudice." He scoffed. "Fucking British troops. No respect, no tolerance! All they care about is the Crown and themselves."

"Mm." She hummed. "Hopefully, this will be the beginning of the end. What we did here today, this is our revolution. You, and me, and everyone here. This is what we started. And when we finish, we will be our own country, where every man and woman is free."

"Now _that _is something I can drink to." He raised his tankard and took a sip. He looked to Connor, who was looking bored and introverted. "Do you not drink, my friend?"

Connor looked up and blinked a little blankly. "He asked if you drink, Connor." Jacqueline said, switching to English, something Stephane had failed to do.

"Oh. Not often, no." He looked briefly concerned. "Should I be?"

"It's quite all right, Connor." Stephane laughed, and casually passed the ale to Jacqueline. "I did not take you for the drinking type, anyway."

Connor reached over, however, and moved the drink back away from her, getting a huff in response. "_I _can drink if I want." She protested. "It's a time for celebration."

"But we will be leaving for the Homestead tomorrow morning." He pointed out. "I do not need you complaining about headaches and nausea the entire way."

"You're not Achilles, Connor." Jacqueline pouted, but didn't try to go after her drink again.

The evening wore lazily on. Samuel, Molineux and Revere left at around the same time for their various houses. Stephane stayed and talked with the Assassins for a while longer, but Connor insisted they leave and find an inn. Their roles were often reversed when she drank, and he became the reluctant voice of reason. They bid Stephane farewell, and left the tavern.

The street, lit with golden lamps and the sounds of horse hooves on cobblestone, tilted around in her vision. She was at the stage of drunkenness where she felt happy and warm, but not disoriented and nauseous. Connor's hand felt warm and steady on her shoulder as he guided her across the street. Fortunately, there was an inn just down the street.

The innkeeper, a plump older woman, did not seem surprised to see customers so late. She looked up from a records book and smiled, fake and practised. "Hello loves, one room or two?"

"One." Jacqueline chirped before Connor could even open his mouth.

The woman kept smiling and marked something down in the book, then reached under the desk for a key. "Here you are. It's the first door on the left."

Connor took a few coins out of a pocket and set them on the desk. Where he had gotten money, Jacqueline could not fathom. The innkeeper took the coins and gave a few back as change. "Thank you, dear. Have a good night."

They walked up to the designated room, Jacqueline a little unsteadily. She tried opening the door, failed, and Connor took the key from her. She walked in and lay down on the bed. There was a bad atmosphere coming from her cohort.

"Why did you ask for one room?" He asked, sounding irritated.

"It's cheaper," She began ticking off her fingers. "We can wake each other up faster. And I didn't know you were so concerned with what other people thought." She looked up at him. He wasn't looking at her, and his face was a little red.

"I am not." He said defensively, and with a tone of finality.

Jacqueline shrugged and let her head fall back. "Very well. You're not. Would you like to flip a coin for the floor, or would you like to share the bed? After all, you don't care what others think of you."

There was a pause. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of looking for his reaction. In fact, the pause grew so long it became uncomfortable and she started to doze. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was actually considering it.

Then, "I will take the floor."


	13. The Beginning of the End

_-OH MY GOD I AM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY BUT I JUST DISCOVERED TUMBLR OVER MY BREAK AND BLEHHH MY LIFE IS RUINED NOW so I guess this is a chance for me to promote myself as the-lady-of-france on that devil website in case any of your have accounts but I'm not trying to be selfish or anything okay maybe I am and that site has also encouraged me to talk in very long continuous sentences with no punctuation of any sort_

_-Also, I went and saw the Hobbit recently. Seriously, anything LOTR for me is like lighting a match in a tinderbox. So I'm trying to get rid of that annoying little plot bunny in another story, causing more delays._

_-I just now realised that the outfit I have been envisioning for Jacqueline is weirdly similar to The Lady Maverick's in multiplayer, except with a more red, white and blue theme. Lol. So if you need to picture what I'm trying to describe, go check out TLM. _

_W'P_

"_But don't you come here and say I didn't warn you about the way your world can alter, and oh how you try to command it all, still, every single time it all shifts one way or the other." –First Aid Kit, "Lion's Roar"_

_-o-_

The visit to Boston was the only event worth noting as months passed. It was a sunny afternoon when something once again happened, something of interest. A lot of the early summer was spent in a bored haze, waiting for some word that their exploits in the city had not just been wasted. For six months nothing happened. Life proceeded as normal on the Homestead; a huntress arrived in the meantime, a woman named Myriam, who was shot by poachers that Connor proceeded to murder.

It was on that sunny afternoon that two things happened. Jacqueline and Connor were sitting on the dining room table, legs crossed, facing each other. They were watching each other with silver irises, using the "second sight", as Connor called it. The topic they were discussing revolved around tailing someone in a crowd versus tailing on the rooftops, alternating languages between sentences. Practising Italian, Spanish, and Latin, though oddly enough Jacqueline kept her language to herself. Fair enough, as he was apparently doing the same with his. The "second sight" made the world turn dark, only illuminating important things. Sitting across from Connor, Jacqueline saw that he was glowing so blindingly blue that it was hard to look directly at him, like he was a small sun.

Their odd meditation conversation was interrupted when the front door to the manor slammed open. Jacqueline flinched on deep-rooted fear, but Connor simply got off the table. Kanen'tó:kon rushed into the manor, checking rooms as he went. "Ratonhnhaké:ton? Ratonhnhaké:ton!"

"Kanen'tó:kon? Why are you here? Has something happened?" Connor asked.

His friend saw them and walked closer. His face was sweaty and red, and he was panting slightly. Whatever had happened, it was urgent. "William Johnson has returned—with all the money required to buy our land. He meets with the elders as we speak. I have begged them to resist but I fear he shall have his way unless you intervene."

"How is this possible? We destroyed the tea." Connor asked to no one in particular.

"The Templars are nothing if not resourceful." Achilles appeared from thin air, as he was apt to do, and limped toward them. "You should have heeded my warning."

"We can still stop this, Ratonhnhaké:ton." Jacqueline said.

"Please, you have to stop him." Kanen'tó:kon looked between them beseechingly.

"Of course. Where are they meeting?" Connor and his friend walked out the door, talking quickly now in their native tongue, but Jacqueline lingered a moment with Achilles.

"What did you warn him of, Achilles?" She asked.

The old man sighed and leaned forward on his walking stick. "Of exactly what's happening. The boy is arrogant. He should have killed Johnson while he had the chance."

Jacqueline thought about that for a moment, and realized she was still looking through the second sight. Rubbing her eyes, she said, "I'll make sure he does this time. I doubt he will settle for another peaceful solution, anyway."

"Best you do, girl." Achilles gestured to the open door. "Now go, before he makes a fool of himself."

She nodded and jogged out to see Connor already on a horse. "Where is Kanen'tó:kon?" She called over.

"He has gone ahead to meet us near Johnson." He replied, steering the horse closer.

"I'll go get Blanche."

"No time." Now right next to her, Connor simply leaned over and picked her up, putting his hands under her arms. Jacqueline yelped in surprise, then crossed her arms as he set her in front of him in the saddle.

"Are we in _that _much of a hurry? It would have taken five minutes…" She grumbled.

"The deal could be signed at any moment. There is no time to lose." Connor spurred on the horse, and they took off into the forest.

He seemed to urge the poor beast on every few seconds, such was his anxiety to reach the meeting point in time. Fortunately it was summer; else the wind might have frozen her face. It was a rough ride, and she grabbed the nameless horse's mane to stay steady when it leapt over fallen trees and chattering brooks. The sound of the rapid hoof-beats were muffled in the spongy, humid soil and grass. There was stress in the air, certainly; she made sure that she carried her bow and arrows, her hunting knife and myriad other weapons, for blood would surely be shed. But she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes for a moment. The air smelled of earth and sunlight, trees and the sweet birds. Behind her she could smell Connor, who emanated a strong aroma of sweat and somehow the forest, as though he were a part of nature himself, grown from the dirt much as the trees were and moved with the horse and the air like an element of the very planet.

The horse whinnied and snorted to a halt on a ridge. Kanen'tó:kon stood there, looking out and up. They were on a small cliff, and scraggly trees led a path down to a little inlet of swampy water and long, gold grass that poked form the water like straw from a pillow. A much larger cliff towered before them, looming over with rough white and gray stone, pale green moss and small birds. On top was a line of heavy emerald trees, and a clear path leading up.

Connor dismounted before the horse could come to a full stop and walked up to his friend. They spoke for a moment in that complex language; William Johnson's name was awkwardly mixed into a sentence. Jacqueline waited until they were done talking, and Connor came over to be her translator.

"Johnson is atop the cliffs, with the elders of my village." He said.

"I assumed as much. Perhaps we should split up and reconvene at the top." She squinted at the environment before them, scanning the landscape for vulnerable points. "The redcoats patrol the paths, so I suggest you take the cliffs. I can take care of the soldiers."

"It is heavily guarded."

"_Je sais, _but I can avoid them better than you can."

He nodded. "Very well."

"And Connor?" She called over to him, ready to take the first jump into the trees. He stopped and looked back at her, and she levelled her gaze with him. "Kill him this time."

He nodded again, and leapt away. Jacqueline sighed and also jumped into trees, although she went a different direction, left toward the angled path. The trees were brittle and nearly leafless, and she was glad she was wearing gloves for fear of the splintering branches. At the last tree before the water, she didn't hesitate before diving in. The summer day was hot and sunny, and even the dirty water was a welcome relief.

She didn't stay underwater, of course. Her eyes and nose remained over the surface, prowling. The long grass kept her mostly concealed as she drifted closer. At one point she had to stop when a redcoat turned her way, and she could feel little lipless fish mouths nibbling at her fingers. On instinct she grabbed out for them but only grazed their sharp scales and slippery, veil-like fins as they darted away in terror.

When she reached land, the redcoat on shore was not facing her. A quick blade to the side of his neck was for safety—they would not be there long. On the cliff to her right, she saw Connor smoothly scaling the craggy rocks. She walked along the path as casually as possible. When she saw a redcoat coming her way, she got a very devious idea. First, she wiped her hand, covered in the blood of the first soldier, on her neck. Then she cleared her throat, and started running breathlessly toward the soldier.

"Help! Oh, help, _monsieur!_" She wept, making her voice soft and soppy. "Please help!"

"Oh?" He grumbled, but did not raise a weapon. What sane man would raise a gun to a hysterical woman, alone, spattered in blood? "Wot's wrong, then?"

"I-I think I saw an assassin!" She stumbled closer to him. "He killed the soldier by th-the river, he's coming this way!"

"An assassin? Well now, best ya come with—"

He was cut off when she quickly stabbed him between the ribs, three times, quick as a flash. The body crumpled at her feet, and she stepped back from the blood that dribbled through the lush grass. She stepped over the body and, catching sight of a patrol rounding the corner, ran up into the trees.

The rest was easier than she thought. Connor had been right when he said it was heavily guarded, but she had to wonder if they were employing the blind, how easily she moved past them. Even her footsteps in the trees did not attract attention. Right over their heads she ran, leapt onto a short ridge and pulled herself up. The soldiers that she saw were facing the wrong way, so she simply walked past them. A house, or manor of some sort, was up on the top of the cliffs. She climbed the painted windowsills and looked down. At the front door stood Johnson, and around him was a half-circle of elderly Natives.

"War is not the answer!" Johnson preached to them, apparently unaware of the irony that was slapping him in the face. She listened to the protests of the Natives for a moment, keeping low so as not to be seen and pointed out.

A tile shifted behind her. "Will you kill him here?" She asked. "In front of all these people?"

"I do not have a choice now." Connor replied quietly.

Jacqueline turned around so she was sitting, facing him. "I have my bow and quiver. You could take him from here, no one would see you…"

"No. I want him to see my face." He cut her off with vehemence.

The background noise of Johnson talking was cut off. The Assassins on the roof glanced at each other, and then chaos erupted.

A series of gunshots rang out, and they ducked. Connor immediately leapt from the roof, and as Jacqueline blinked into the second sight, she watched him running after a red shape, which must have been gold to his eyes. Smoke began to fill the air, and she realized she needed to have Connor's back while he pursued Johnson. Jumping through the cloud of smoke surrounding the roof, she ran after the blue shape that could barely be seen through the leaves and gunfire.

Running down the path after them, she hit the ground when she heard the call to fire from a firing line. Bullets screamed past her head, so close that her ears were ringing when she got back up. Ahead, Connor was gaining on Johnson, but an officer was gaining on him. Still sprinting at full speed, she pulled her bow from her back and nocked an arrow. She ran to a tree stump and leapt off.

Time slowed. Jacqueline was nearly horizontal to the ground, but managed to shoot one arrow directly between the shoulder blades of the officer pursuing Connor.

Sharp pain cut along her face when she fell, as she couldn't stop her momentum. When she stood, wiping her sleeve across her mouth, there was blood running down her chin. About ten, twenty feet away, Connor was crouched over Johnson's body, speaking. Jacqueline turned to face the score of redcoats behind her, ready to defend him while Johnson died, but she felt a pull on her shoulder.

Connor tugged her along, and she took off running with him. They passed Johnson's body as they went; he was sprawled out, and his eyes had been closed. A wound in his neck bled out into the dirt. From there they went to the beach, and ran into the water. A few shots went way over their heads, and Jacqueline held her breath under the water.

Muffled, warbling, English yells echoed over their heads. After a little bit, and her lungs were straining with effort, the talking faded away. She clawed to the surface and gasped in the cooling evening air. Beside her, Connor wiped some hair from his eyes.

"Are you okay?" Jacqueline asked, treading closer to him.

He nodded, but looked somewhat dazed. She didn't know what the killing of Johnson had done to him, but she wasn't going to ask. They swam back to the shore they had started on, with the dry trees and rocky shore. For several minutes they sat in quiet reminisce.

"You have a cut." Connor said, breaking the silence. "Here." He reached over and touched her lip.

Jacqueline blushed and looked away, holding a hand to her mouth. "I fell." She stood and squeezed dirty water from her braid. "Let's get back to the manor."

-o-

"Ouch…" Jacqueline hissed and pulled back from Achilles and his alcohol-soaked rag. "That hurts."

"You should have been more careful." He chided tiredly, wringing the cloth out into a bowl of spent alcohol and water, tinged pink. "This is going to scar."

"_Fantastique._" She sighed, and flinched back at the cold, stinging touch. "Ouch!"

"Oh, shut up." Her mentor grumbled.

"Don't pretend you're not happy I'm home safe, old man."

"As long as you don't get killed, little girl."


	14. Curiouser and Curiouser

"_The past is strapped to our backs. We do not have to see it; we can always feel it." -Mignon McLaughlin_

_-o-_

The Assassins walked down the quiet street, keeping their heads low and steps quiet. The night was warm and humid. A fine, temperate mist drifted down over the city in a damp haze. Summer was waning into August, and the climate had put Connor into a foul humour. His companion said nothing, matching his silence, when they stopped in front of a small building. He looked up at it and then down to Jacqueline. They shrugged in unison, and entered.

Inside was a short entrance hall. Connor walked forward first and entered the second door. Beyond that was a small, dimly lit room. At a table in the centre, three men were sitting and one was pouring them tea. He looked up when they entered. "Ah, Connor! What a relief! You came! Allow me to…" He put his hand on Connor's shoulder, which was shrugged off. "To introduce you to William Dawes and Robert Newman. I'm afraid I haven't made your acquaintance, Miss…?"

"Jacqueline." She answered with a short nod.

The two men at the table stood, and Connor strode further into the room. "Your letter said John Pitcairn was here." He said accusatorially.

"Aye. He's readying an assault on Lexington, where Adams and Hancock have taken shelter." Revere, or who Jacqueline gathered to be Revere, closed the door behind them. "After that, he will march on Concord, hoping to destroy our weapons and supplies. You must help us!"

"Only tell me where to find him and I will put a stop to this." Connor said shortly.

"He has dozens, if not hundreds, of soldiers at his command." Revere continued. "You cannot hope to stop him by yourselves, even with both of your skills combined. But fear not—for you will not have to!" He walked closer to the Assassins. "We have an entire army of our own, merely awaiting the order to take up arms!"

Connor turned to face him, his expression stone. "Then you must call on them."

Revere put a hand on his shoulder again, which he pulled away at Connor's venomous look. "Indeed. You, I, and the young lady will cross the Charles River and rouse the boys!" He was way too excited. Jacqueline wondered if he'd ever seen death. "William, I need you to take the overland route and do the same."

He ushered the men, finishing their drinks and grabbing their hats, to the door. "Robert, I need you up in Christ Church. Light the signal. Two lanterns—our enemy comes by sea!" He then turned back to the others and put a hand on Jacqueline's shoulder, apparently thinking it was safe, but Connor smacked it away anyway. "No time for dawdling, my friends. We have lives to save. Come on."

Walking out of the hidden building and down toward the river, Jacqueline softly rested her hand on Connor's shoulder and pulled him back toward her; he didn't shrug her off. "Patience, Ratonhnhaké:ton." She muttered.

He breathed out his nose, and she saw his jaw tighten. "Yes, patience. I don't believe I will have much patience left by the end of tonight."

"Then I will have to have enough patience for both of us." She laughed quietly.

The little group arrived at the rowboat. Revere helped push it to the water, then climbed in first and waited for the other two. Connor clambered in, being heavier, and then Jacqueline hopped in last. The water sloshed around as the boat rocked precariously. White flecks of moonlight reflected on the water. Connor rowed, sitting near the back. Revere talked as they went along; to Jacqueline it was little more than meaningless jabber. From what she could gather, some of his men left horses on the other side for them, and that was their goal.

When they reached shore, Revere jumped onto dry land right away and let Connor drag the boat up onto the grassy sand. "Ah. They've only left the two horses. We'll have to ride together."

"I have ridden with Connor before—" Jacqueline started.

"I've no doubt you have, my dear lady, but this is not the time for—"

"I mean on the horse." She gritted, interrupting him before she broke his nose. "So you can take this one." She took the reins of a brown-speckled mare and shoved them in his hand. "_Hommes…_" She muttered and swung herself up onto the other beast, staying forward in the saddle.

Connor climbed up after, and reached forward to hold the reins. "Patience." He murmured with a touch of amusement.

The irony didn't escape her, and she chuckled wryly. "Yes. Patience."

Revere started off, a little unsteadily, but he could ride a horse at least. "This way!" He called back, and cantered off.

The path wasn't very obvious at first, as they had to move from the brush and woods to the dirt road nearby. The darkness was almost absolute, with only the moon to light the way. It was a boring ride, to be frank, punctuated by Revere's calls to follow him or that they were on the right path. Jacqueline contemplated cutting out his tongue; she could hear Connor exhale whenever he spoke too loudly. Soon, they came across an intersection in the road, and Revere suddenly pulled up.

"Redcoats!" He whispered as the Assassins approached. "What are _they_ doing here?"

"Scouts, I should think." Jacqueline observed, peering after the contingent and noticing none were well armed.

About ten minutes after the close call with the redcoats, they reached the first tiny farm. It was a collection of ramshackle housing and little pens of chickens and pigs. Laundry was hanging up to dry nearby. Revere dismounted next to a whitewashed house and they followed. Connor knocked on the door and a hunched man opened it.

"Let everyone know that the Regulars march for Lexington and Concord." Revere announced. The man nodded and closed the door. "Back in the saddle, my friends. We have more people to warn."

Before they got on to their mounts, Jacqueline happened to glance out into the dark forest, and stopped, confused. "Wait, wait." She said.

"Something the matter? We really should get on…" Revere edged toward the horses.

"Connor, ride with him for a moment. I need to…go check on something." She took the reins of Revere's horse and mounted it, and before they could ask any more questions, she trotted off into the brush and low bushes.

When she approached the deeper, darker part of the woods farther from the woods, she heard a rustling. Dismissing it as a rabbit, she dismounted and looked around the area. Only after her years of training could she identify the slightest of trails. A bit of scuffed dirt here, a couple crooked leaves in the area that looked over the town.

A crunch of breaking bones made her flinch away. Under her foot was something fleshy, its bones snapped under her. It was covered with torn up grass, like someone had tried to make it even more obvious that something was there. Frowning, Jacqueline knelt and brushed the grass away. Underneath was a very curious thing—the silver, glimmering scales of a small dead fish. It was still wet and twitching, as though someone had put it there not moments ago.

"_Ce que l'enfer?" _She muttered. Using a leaf, she picked up the fish and turned it over.

Having not noticed it before—until she had moved the fish—she saw something next to it and picked it up as well, turning it over in her hand. She was suddenly overwhelmed with the sense that she was being watched, and turned around. Only the blue-black trees and a hooting owl greeted her. Tucking the other object into her pocket, she left the curious scene and got back on her horse.

Connor and Revere had already passed through the next closest farm town, and she had to urge her poor stallion faster to rendezvous with them. She caught them on the road to the last house and pulled up next to them. "Where did you go?" Connor asked.

"I thought…well, it is nothing. I'll show you later." She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, all thought of the British aside for the moment. "Just a suspicion."

The last residence came into view, a fine white house with a green door. They gathered on the front stoop and knocked. However, there was no answer. Not immediately, anyway, and the door opened. The man on the other side looked quite scared.

"Let everyone know the British are coming." Revere said confidently.

"Here! We're _here!_" A redcoat shoved the homeowner to the side and levelled his bayonet at them.

The Assassins ducked and dragged Revere down with them. The gunshot boomed over them, and the trio took off at a run. More soldiers were running after them, clanking and yelling. Connor nearly leapt onto the horse and, while Jacqueline was climbing up after him, almost threw her over the other side with the force with which he pulled her up.

Revere struggled onto his own horse, and they galloped away from the banging of gunshots. Their escape was made into a field of wheat, which seemed to glow in the moonlight, and ended next to a strip of water that looked like a small river, or something that would widen into one—it was certainly deep enough. They paused, and Jacqueline got off her horse.

"We'll never make it in time on foot!" Revere called, panicked.

She looked back at the crowd of Regulars approaching. Connor also seemed to realise they were out of options and dismounted. Their talkative companion was finally silenced by indecision, but floundered off the poor spotted mare.

"We've no choice now. Hurry or die." Taking her pistol from her belt, she hurled it to the other side of the water and jumped in.

-o-

_Delays, delays, delays! Ugh! Life, get out of my way!_

_It's short, I know, but this should be the start of more regular updates, thank you for your patience, I love you all!_

_Ooh, what did she find? Stay tuned! ;D_


	15. The Deep Breath Before the Plunge

_-I'm skipping the Battle of Lexington and Concord, and yes I know I'm a masterful wordsmith genius (vomits sarcasm) but that's a long battle, and I frankly do not believe either of us would have the patience to read/write that._

_-Speaking of skipping, there's a lot of that around this chapter, sorry! The next should be better._

_-Fast updates because hnnnnng I want to continue this so badly!_

"_We choose those we like; with those we love, we have no say in the matter." –Mignon McLaughlin_

_-o-_

The water was clear and chill. Jacqueline could hear weapons above her, yelling. Beside her, squinting through the water, she could see Connor swimming to the other side of the river. He caught her eye and nodded. She smiled and burbled bubbles out her nose. An explosion of white foam next to her made her whirl away, but it was only Revere, jumping in after them. His eyes were scrunched closed, hands floundering aimlessly. Jacqueline sighed, a deep and impatient sigh of concentrated exasperation directly from her soul, and grabbed his sleeve to drag him to the edge.

The air was cold in comparison to the water when she surfaced, gasping. Revere coughed violently, spitting water onto the grass. Connor jumped to his feet and helped Jacqueline up. "We're not out of the woods yet, are we?" She grabbed up her pistol and looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, the scrabbling British were leveling their weapons.

"Not yet. Come on!" Connor heaved Revere to his feet and they ran.

"You don't know how to swim, do you?" Jacqueline panted, keeping pace with Revere as Connor led.

He laughed breathlessly. "I am a silversmith by trade, Jacqueline," He stumbled and continued on. "Swimming has little place in a silver shop."

Once they reached the road, having fought through the brush, it seemed that the redcoats had dropped their pursuit. Revere looked up. "What luck! This is exactly where we're supposed to be! Let's see if Prescott is in."

Up at the house, Revere knocked on the door. Again, there was a pause in the answer. The Assassins shifted, remembering the last time. Revere knocked once again. "Where the devil is he?" He huffed.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Connor asked.

"Sure I'm sure!" He exclaimed, striding around to look around the corner of the house.

A woman suddenly ran around from the back garden. She was naked but for lacy pants, and covered her bare chest with her arms before dashing past the three revolutionaries. A man jogged out after her without any trousers. "Prescott?" Revere asked.

The man observed them with interest, smiling. "Evening, gents, my lady." He added with a nod and quirk of an eyebrow to Jacqueline.

"Listen, the Regulars are out. You need to rally your men. And put some trousers on!" Revere sounded strained.

"At once." Prescott said with amusement, and walked into his house through the front door.

-o-

Jacqueline was sitting in her room in the manor. After Lexington, she and Connor had returned to the Homestead to unwind. She wasn't exactly sure what sort of emotion her brain was currently marinating in. It was a befuddling, numbing sort of feeling. Perhaps she was in shock. When they had arrived back at the manor, they were covered in bruises and little scrapes, soot and filth that clung to them like a second skin. The battle had taken a toll on them both.

Sitting in her room felt like the only solution. A glass of wine was clasped in a limp hand, a large piece of orange on its rim. Sun was warm on her face, which was pressed to the window. A French storybook was resting open on her collar, her thumb between the pages.

A knock on the door dimly roused her from her dozing. "Jacqueline?" It was Connor.

"_Oui_?" She yawned. "Sorry, I must have been asleep."

"Uh, sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were all right." He stepped inside her room, almost warily.

Jacqueline got off her windowsill and seemed to notice she was holding the wine, and sipped at it. "I'll be fine. This is what we do now, _oui_?" She took the orange slice off and ate it. "The solution is alcohol and relaxation."

Connor nodded. "When you're ready, we have business in Philadelphia." He paused. "On the ride with Paul Revere, why did you leave us?"

"Ah!" She stood and brushed her skirt down. "I almost forgot about that. I won't bother explaining what I saw, as I'm…_mostly _sure it was simply my imagination. But I found a dead fish, and this."

She tossed something to him. He caught it and quirked his head. "An apple?"

Jacqueline nodded with a dry smile. "An apple."

There was a beat of silence. "Why is it important?"

"I suspect I'm being followed." She took the apple back, observed it a moment, and took a bite. "By someone I would rather not have following me. Of course it's all speculation but even so I would be extra alert."

"Why is someone following you? An assassin?" Connor asked, leaning against the door.

"I don't think so. If he wanted me dead, he would have made his move the night of the ride." She chewed her apple thoughtfully, then perked up and beamed at him. "So, Philadelphia?"

Connor seemed taken aback by her sudden mood change. "Er, yes. We were requested to attend a formal gathering of some sort."

"Well, then I guess we'd better." She took another bite of the fruit and they walked out of the room.

-o-

Connor was fuming. Inside, he reasoned that killing Charles Lee in the midst of an event such as that would have been both inappropriate and unwise. General Washington seemed to have some measure of trust in him, and it would be best to keep it as such.

The building he was in made him uneasy. Though it was lit by afternoon sunlight and had a pleasant sort of atmosphere, it felt too cramped and he wanted to leave as quickly as possible. Jacqueline was a comforting sight, sitting on the banister to the stairs and eating an orange. Women had not been allowed in the meeting, and so she had remained outside in the lobby. Some of the politicians were giving her confused or distasteful looks.

She looked up as he approached. "How was it?"

"Uneventful. Though I suspect this will have further consequences in the future." He answered truthfully. "Charles Lee was there."

Her eyebrows rose. "And you stayed your blade."

"I had little choice." Connor grumbled. "It would not have boded well. I was stopped by Sam Adams, besides."

"Hmm." Jacqueline hummed, nodding. Her tongue darted out to touch the new scar over her mouth, and his eyes were automatically drawn to it. "Good for you, I suppose. I remember a time when you would have taken the chance to kill him no matter where or when it presented itself."

She hopped down off the banister when he chose not to reply, and was shaken from his thoughts when she put her arm through his and tugged him along. "What are you doing?" He asked.

"You've become a recognised figure, Connor." Jacqueline put a crescent of orange in her mouth. "At events such as these, it's appropriate for a man of your standing to have a woman on his arm." She smirked. "Whether she's in his bed or not."

He felt his face warm, and when he opened his mouth to respond, found he had nothing to say, and quickly shut it again before he surely said something very foolish that he would later come to regret.

"So," She continued with a tone that suggested she had seen his fumbling for words. "Are we meant to mingle, or can we please leave?"

"We can leave." He steered them toward the door. "This place makes me feel…confined."

Once back out on the streets, he remembered the paper given to him by Adams, and began to tuck it away. Jacqueline saw—of course she did, he thought dryly—and grabbed it away. "What's this?" She read it over. "Bunker Hill?"

He exhaled through his nose. "It's where Sam Adams has tracked Pitcairn's location to."

"And you decided to try and keep me in the dark?" She raised an eyebrow, and he suddenly felt like he'd been caught committing a crime. "Nice try, Ratonhnhaké:ton, but not nice enough. I'm coming with you."

"No. Bunker Hill is a battlefield, a warzone. It is no place for—"

"For a woman?" She snapped.

"That was not what I was going to say."

"Then what _were _you going to say?"

Connor was quickly realizing he'd made a mistake. He'd fought over a score of soldiers and trained relentlessly, learned three languages and battled ships over sea. If there was one thing he would never understand, however, it was women, and he suspected Jacqueline was going to be his lesson in understanding them. So after putting more thought into his response, he said, "I do not want to see you killed in battle."

She scoffed. "I think you've forgotten what we do for a living."

"I have not, but this is not…"

Jacqueline held up a hand, and he knew enough to stop speaking. "Connor. You aren't going to win this argument." Their path through the streets had led them away from the main paved roads, and they now found themselves in a tight alleyway. She turned to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm coming with you. And you can't persuade me otherwise."

He rolled his head a little, torn, but decided it would be best not to argue. "Very well." Inside, he grumbled, "Women…"

-o-

Even in the distance, she could hear the explosions. It was distant and foreboding, like thunder before the storm hit. Blanche whinnied unhappily below her, and Jacqueline urged her mount on. Their guide was leading her and Connor through the forest. It was not Bunker Hill, however. The hill the troops were camped on was called Breed's Hill, as there had been—according to the guide—"disagreement" as to where camp should be made. Little groups of militia were gathered by the side of the road leading up the hill. The air was heavy with the smell of gunpowder.

At the base of Breed's Hill, there was another bang of cannon fire. Jacqueline felt a spike of adrenaline. Then she trotted over the swell, past fallen and ripped apart trees, and just like that they were in camp.

The militia had not wasted any time digging up what was essentially the entire hill. Mounds of brown earth were packed up with large, warped pieces of wood to make a barrier of sorts. Little shelters had been crafted in the mud, mixed in with all the militia and scraps of the trees. Down over the other side of the hill was a valley, and covering the hill across the valley was a thick fur of redcoats. A few small areas had been dug out and barricaded most of the way into the valley, but the soldiers there made little move toward the British besides shooting.

"General Putnam's up ahead. You can't miss 'im." Their guide said, and trotted away.

The Assassins dismounted and started walking carefully through the camp. At one point, Jacqueline paused to look out over Charlestown. With a massive whistling sound, a cannon ball went roaring past her and exploded into the dirt. That started a new volley, and more followed it until it was hard to see through the flying chunks of mud, splashes of water and blood.

"There." Connor's hand found her shoulder, and he pointed to a jowly man with a chewed up cigar in his mouth. Jacqueline nodded, and they fought their way through the panicking soldiers to him. "General Putnam!"

"What?" He snapped back.

"I'm looking for John Pitcairn, and I was told you could help me find him."

He frowned and gestured with his cigar to Jacqueline. "What the hell's a woman doing here? You mad, boy?"

Jacqueline bristled. "I volunteered. And I can speak for myself."

"And a French one, too." Putnam shook his head. "Pitcairn's tucked away inside that city with no reason to leave. So long as that ship continues its assault, we'll never flush him out."

"But if the ship were silenced…?" Connor suggested.

"Then poor John might be forced to get off his arse and come forward."

Connor looked down and picked up a dirty Colonies flag from the pockmarked earth. "I shall fly this flag to signal my success."

"And I shall speak fondly of you at your funeral." Putnam gave them a sarcastic salute with the hand holding the cigar and sauntered away.

At this point, Jacqueline could have burned up to cinder with all the excitement and adrenaline that was burning through her veins. Catching sight of another ripped and filthy flag a few feet away, she grabbed it up and grinned at Connor. "_Allons-y_!"


	16. Once More Unto the Breach

"_War is hell, but that's not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead." -Tim O'Brien_, The Things They Carried

_-o-_

The cannon fire was heavier near Charlestown. As they approached the city, fleeing and fighting militia flooded them. Screams began to rain down through the air with all the dirt. Jacqueline clutched her flag in her hand so tight her knuckles hurt. Inside, she repeated to herself that she wasn't scared. Fear was an illusion. Fear was an illusion. _Fear was an illusion. _

A man with a piece of stone lodged all the way through his torso ran stumbling past her, clutching and sobbing for help before collapsing on the ground at her feet. Jacqueline stifled a gasp, and Connor turned to her. "Are you okay?"

"_Fantastique_." She gritted out. "Let's just get this over with quickly."

"We have to run." Connor decided. They hadn't yet entered the town, but once they got closer, it would be utter chaos. "If we are separated, swim to the ships."

"Right." Jacqueline chewed on the inside of her cheek. "Connor, if something happens, I just want to say…" She trailed off and stopped.

He frowned and glanced at her. "Yes?"

Red flashed up her cheeks. "Never mind. We'll be fine."

They were both sent stumbling as a cannonball created a crater next to them with a massive _boom! _Ears ringing, Jacqueline scrambled to her feet and started running. People shoved her away, and she shoved others away. A building was hit next to her and dissolved into bricks that rained down like heavy thunder. A woman screamed, high enough to break glass. Fire roared across a market, spreading like orange death into the street. Jacqueline leapt through it, the heat scorching her fingers as she pushed the flames aside. Some base instinct told her it would be very foolish to stop moving for any reason.

There was something in her right eye, and she had to squint. Out of habit, she licked the scar on her lips, skidding around a corner and barreling toward the harbour. A section of the street was blown to Heaven a few feet in front of her with an explosion that racked the ground. Still running, she made a jump for the other side. A soldier who had been dragged down into it grabbed her heel in his panic, and she missed the other side. Pain lashed across her face when her cheek scraped across a flagstone on the edge. She threw back her wrist and stabbed the soldier with her hidden blade, not even looking to see the colour of his clothes. Many stones that she grabbed on the way out came away in her grasp, but she managed to climb from the hole and keep running.

When she reached the docks, she didn't slow her momentum and jumped into the water. Her lungs felt like ash, cinders that somehow pumped air into her body still. But once in the water, the cannon fire stayed concentrated on Charlestown, and she was momentarily safe. A long stretch of blue-gray water separated her from the two ships.

Another splash in the water made her go under momentarily in surprise, but it was only Connor. She spluttered and spat out salty water. "Connor!" Her voice was a hoarse laugh. "Connor!"

He swam toward her, flashing a rare smile. "You're bleeding." He noted.

Jacqueline wiped at her face, and her hand came back pink with washed out blood. "Missed a jump. I'll be fine." It stung like a bitch in the salty ocean. She rotated her body in the water to face the ships. "Which do you want?"

Connor did something close to a shrug and gestured to the one on the left with a splash. Jacqueline nodded, and they started off. Compared to the run through the decimated city, the swim to the ship was fairly dull. The water was frigid, and her fingers started to go numb. A good distance away to her left, she saw Connor approaching the other boat.

Sooner rather than later, she was upon her own ship, and began to carefully climb it. The wood was slippery but weirdly warm under her fingers. Pulling herself onto the edge, she peered around the deck. There were a few redcoats patrolling, and one so heavily armed that she was surprised he could still walk. She waited until they all had their back turned to her, and slipped onto the boat.

There was no time to lose. Jacqueline pulled her bow from her back, carefully nocked an arrow, and levelled it at the brute with the axe at his belt. It flew from the bow as though happy to be released and struck its target in the chest. He staggered. With a prompt _snap, _he broke the arrow away and glared at her.

That was it. Jacqueline let her arms fall and looked up to God. "You're joking."

Then the redcoats charged, having seen her, and she ran around the mast, wondering just what in the hell she was supposed to be doing. Blow up the ship? That could work. Where was the gunpowder? She tripped and was sent sprawling. The slippery deck offered little traction, but she managed to roll back up into a standing position and face the redcoats.

The first one stabbed at her with his bayonet, and she quickly sidestepped the blade, grabbed it, and kicked him between the legs. Taking hold of the gun, she turned and shot the first man she saw, which happened to be the brute. After a shot from both arrow and gun, he took a knee. Jacqueline grabbed and swung out her sword, the metal singing from the leather. Glancing around, she took hold of a rope and cut it below her hand.

The opposite weight sent her flying upward, with only the rope keeping her from dropping far below to deck. When she reached the top, she climbed and curved through the ropes to the uppermost. Now with a birds-eye view, she could see Connor on the other ship. He was standing amidst a ring of bodies and setting something up on the deck, but she couldn't see what it was. Finished, he ran to the edge of the ship and dove off the side.

A few seconds later, a small ball of fire erupted on the deck of the sister ship. The soldiers below deck yelled in alarm. Gunshots followed, some so close to her that she could hear the bullets.

Jacqueline jumped off the mast and onto a shroud nearby, then descended quick as a spider. With a war cry of joy and fear, she charged the group. Her sword jabbed weak points and met fleshy targets. Blood spattered her white robes and white skin, and when she came back to her senses, was standing in a small puddle of scarlet.

"Whew." She wiped her forehead with her sleeve and sheathed her sword. Going below deck, she located the barrels of gunpowder used to fuel the cannons. Not bothering with the soldiers that were loading said weapons, she took one of the barrels and laid a trail. With a piece of flint she lit the end, and ran from the ship.

Up top, she rushed to the end of the ship and jumped off, arms flailing and with no semblance of elegance or grace. Under the water, she heard the explosion of the ship. Fire boiled over her head, along with splinters of wood and flecks of cloth. Something grabbed her arm. A burst of bubbles escaped her mouth when she unconsciously shouted, but when she turned to look it was again only Connor. He pulled her up to the surface.

They gasped and looked around. Connor's ship was damaged, but would survive with some work. Jacqueline's, however, had been completely demolished. The powder kegs must have all gone up instead of just the one. Bits of flaming timber sank into the depths.

"Well," Jacqueline cocked her head appraisingly. "It's not shooting anymore."

"I do not think you will need that flag." Connor agreed. "I must still fly mine."

Jacqueline accompanied him to the other ship and waited on the side, dangling her legs. On shore, she could see Charlestown in ruins. Pitcairn was likely already up in arms, and the ground assault would be that much more fervent. If Putnam wanted to win this battle, he was going to need every man with four limbs and both her and Connor.

A gust of wind flicked the bits of hair hanging out of her hood, and her gaze was drawn up. The blue flag with the ring of white stars snapped and waved at the topmast. Almost as soon as she saw it, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Let's go back to Breed's Hill." She looked up and pursed her lips to one side. Connor was looking off toward shore, studying the broken houses. The braid at the side of his face dripped water down his cheek. "Putnam's got a funeral to cancel."

He nodded. "Yes. And then we kill Pitcairn."

Jacqueline looked back to Charlestown. "Pitcairn." She echoed quietly. A few moments passed in silence. "Do you remember that time you pushed me off the cliff behind the manor?"

Her head fell back again in time to see him smirk. "Yes. You threw chickens into my room for revenge."

She laughed. "_Ouais_, that's right, I did. I would have added a piglet but I don't think Achilles would have approved." She stood and stretched. "Let's go, then. No time to lose with Pitcairn readying his troops."

They both jumped off the boat, almost in unison. The journey back to the wharf was slower as they conserved energy. There was no rush this time, or at least not as much of one. It was almost pleasant. Charlestown was in shambles. It could hardly be said to be a city anymore, the state it was in. It seemed like half the population was dead or injured, screaming in the streets or just lying there. Blood seemed to cover the streets.

It felt like an eternity before they reached Breed's Hill. The hill leading down to the town was a mess of broken trees and mud that they had to climb. Things in the trenches had calmed down since the ships had stopped firing. The militia was grouped in a large mass near the front lines of the barricades, listening to Putnam give a speech. The Assassins stopped a distance away to listen as well.

"…The enemy approaches and you tremble. They've fitter numbers, you say. Better weapons. Better training. But I do not fear, and neither should you." His voice was a horse, weathered call to the younger men. "For what they have in material they lack in conviction and care. But not us. We have discipline. We have order. But most importantly, we have passion! So maintain vigilance. Conserve your ammo. Ensure a proper line of sight, and above all else, men: do not fire until you see the white of their eyes."

The militia disbanded, and Putnam sat on a crate next to a cannon, still gnawing away at his cigar. He looked up as they approached. "I'll be damned. You did it."

"That was quite a speech." Connor said, with what Jacqueline could detect was sarcasm so light she could only hear it after having lived with him for so long.

"Lies, all of it, I'm afraid. Still, such words have carried us thus far." Putnam smiled wryly, almost tiredly.

"And what of Pitcairn?" Jacqueline interjected. "Surely this would have caught his attention."

"He's left Boston as I said he would, and set up camp on Moulton Hill." As Putnam spoke, Connor looked through a spyglass at the battlefield below. "There's no good way to get at him, not with that maelstrom brewing down below. I suppose you could circle around a bit, or wait for us to thin their ranks."

"There is no time." Connor lowered the spyglass. "I will have to chance a direct approach."

"That's twice today you've proposed the impossible."

"I see no other choice."

Jacqueline sighed, knowing that he was stubbourn as a mule and wasn't going to change his mind, even though she was having doubts herself. Putnam frowned and put the cigar back in his mouth. "That's 'cause you're mad as a march hare, son."

Connor's lip curled, and he turned to the older man. "I expect an apology when I return." And he stomped off.

Jacqueline jogged after him, irritated. "This is a new level of recklessness, even for you, Connor." She lectured. "You think you can just run at _an army _and expect to _live_? This is suicide."

"Possibly. Which is why you are staying here." He turned to face her.

She raised an eyebrow, her mouth falling open slightly in disbelief. "Hmm. I'll consider that for a moment. No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are." There was that Connor she knew, and there was the chink in her armor. "Please."

With a disgruntled huff and a few French curses, she sighed. "Fine, go. Just go."

Something brushed her face; soft as an eagle's feather and so brief she may have imagined it. Blinking in surprise, Jacqueline realised that it was Connor's hand on her cheek. With a pointed frown that clearly said, "stay here", he vaulted over the barrier to the battlefield and faded away into the smog and dust.

_-o-_

_-Rule #1: There is no such thing as too much sexual tension. _

_-Rule #2: I'm the author and if I have half a mind I will make this story so sexually charged and unresolved that my fingertips will bleed estrogen. Because I can. _

_-That's about it. __**Review!**_


	17. The Doctor Will See You Now

"_People pay the doctor for his trouble; for his kindness they still remain in his debt." -Seneca_

_-o-_

With not much to do while Connor was off getting himself killed, Jacqueline reluctantly retreated to the medical tent on Putnam's suggestion. It was the largest shelter that side of the hill, including Putnam's own quarters. When she pushed back the canvas flap to go inside, the strong stench of blood and death struck her with such choking force she gagged. Inside, men with severed legs or more serious injuries were lying on naught more than pieces of clothe on the ground, hardly even cots.

Picking her way through the bodies, she honestly couldn't tell if some of them were dead or not. The weeping ones were alive at least. There was one man standing amidst the carnage. He was skinny and lean, in maybe his early thirties, with brown-ginger hair that stuck out at odd angles. An apron smeared with blood was tied around his middle. On the table in front of him was a man with a large shard of wood through his arm.

"Get the pliers, boy, quickly!" The doctor snapped at his sweating assistant who couldn't be more than seventeen. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to see if you need h—"

"Put this on your face you mad woman, or you'll get dust in that." The doctor tossed a cloth at her and turned back to his patient to speak over his shoulder. "Of course I need help. Do you see this? Do you see all this _shit_? It's me and Bernard here taking care of all these poor souls who've got next to no chance of living anyway."

"What?!" The man on the table shrieked.

"Sir, lower your voice. Come here with those." The boy, Bernard, handed him pliers and the doctor put a chew in the soldier's mouth. In one quick, practised move, he ripped the shard out of his arm. The man screamed past the leather bit for a moment and then promptly passed out.

Jacqueline pressed the cloth to her skinned cheek. "I know how to treat wounds."

"So does half of the Colonies nowadays." The doctor continued working, now with a saw.

Jacqueline looked away from the arm that was becoming quickly detached from the rest of the body in a most violent manner. She waited until he was finished and tossed the amputated arm away. He sighed and turned around, using his apron to wipe his stained hands.

"Look, it's kind of you to try, but I'm honestly just doing my job. I get my hands a little dirty and I get to eat another night. It's nothing against you at all. French, female, I don't care. Hell, if women served this war would already be over."

"That's an enlightened view on things." She noted, pleasantly surprised.

"Then call me da Vinci. Or don't, actually. Name's Martin O'Callaghan." They shook, which left a bloody smear on Jacqueline's hand. "Now, if you're really so insistent on being a good bloody Samaritan, you can take care of a couple of those poor bastards." He tossed her a roll of gauze and a tweezers.

She caught the supplies and knelt at the soldier at her feet. He had been shot in the leg. With the little pinchers, she pried the wound open, getting a yell of pain while she dug the round out. "Why does this camp have but one doctor and apprentice?" She asked. "This is wartime."

"Oh, sure it is." Martin replied, tying the stump of an arm off and moving him aside. "But the big people, the ones with power, they could care more about a goat's arse. We're the _little _people. Who cares if a soldier or two dies a horrible death? As long as they're still sleeping warm in their houses and eating fine foods."

"You judge too harshly." Jacqueline decided, wrapping gauze around the bleeding hole in the soldier's arm. "The rich are not all amoral and the impoverished are not all saints."

"Aren't they? Sure how it looks from this side of the war. You think any one o' them in New York or Boston would willingly come out here and get shot to meat? Now I'm not saying there aren't foul people in the country and fine folks in the cities. Just different perspectives, is all."

"You seem to be an educated man, doctor." She said after a pause. "Why are you here and not in a city?"

"They need doctors." Martin sighed simply. He splashed his hands in a bucket of water and rubbed the blood off with a rag. "It wasn't exactly my first choice. My wife threw a fit, of course, when I was recruited. Maybe a gruesome death here is better than returning to _that_ storm."

Now that he had settled down somewhat, it was clear that his accent was a little more refined and less cockney. From his pocket he produced a tiny pair of spectacles and placed them on his nose, then ran a hand through his mad hair. "What are _you _doing here is a better question. One doesn't normally see women storming the front lines."

"Do I look like I'm storming the front lines?" Jacqueline asked sarcastically. She moved on to the next man in the row only to find he was dead.

Martin chuckled. "No, but you're dressed the part."

"I suppose I'm here to do the same as everyone else—fight the English. I have my own reasons and alliances, and if it's not too rude I'd prefer to keep them my own." She slid the man's cold eyelids shut and removed the clothe from under him to drape it over his body.

"Of course, of course." He nodded understandingly.

"Please help me!" One of the soldiers cried, clutching his shoulder.

Martin jolted and looked around. "Now where did that boy run off to? Mind helping me?"

"It's what I'm here for." Jacqueline stood and helped him put the man up on the operating table. She removed her cape and rolled up her sleeves.

For the next hour or so, she helped him amputate and euthanise and sanitise the various injured soldiers. It was morbid work, but it gave Jacqueline plenty of time to muse. There was something comforting and robotic about caring for injuries. The soldiers were a pleasant sort most of the time, and she enjoyed getting more experience with treating injuries from a real doctor.

Speaking of whom, Martin was a good conversationalist when he wasn't stressed. If there was a particularly angry or pushy soldier under the knife, he became agitated and his accent took on a thick brogue that her French ears had a hard time deciphering.

The long, unending conversation was engaging for both parties. On the one hand, Jacqueline was interested in his work as a doctor. He had a family; a wife named Clarissa and a daughter named Sophia. The family had moved from Ireland. Bernard was his apprentice who he had taken in when he reached the Colonies. On the other hand, Martin was insatiably curious about her opinion on politics and the war from the female perspective. It was clear he wanted to know how she had gotten into the war in the first place, but to his credit did not pry.

The apprentice, Bernard, appeared at one point, and that was a bad move. Martin looked up and frowned. "Where have you been, you mite?"

"I, uh, I…I wanted to see the battle." He admitted, hanging his head. "I'm sorry. I should not have left."

"Damn right you shouldn't have left, this kindred spirit's been taking care of _your _work! Now go wash out that bucket and get back in here right quick before I tan your sorry hide!" Martin nodded to the bucket of bloody water, and a flustered Bernard snatched it up and bailed. "That lad's going to be the death of me, I just know it." He sighed and returned to work.

They were tending to a man with a broken leg when Bernard suddenly burst back into the tent, out of breath. The bucket of water swung, empty, at his side. "Doctor, doctor!"

Martin straightened up. "What is it?"

"The news has just arrived! Someone's killed General Pitcairn! Murdered him right on his horse, right under the nose of his own men!"

Jacqueline stopped tying the splint to the man's shin and looked at him. "You're kidding."

"No ma'am. The Regulars are in quite the bad humour, doctor. General Putnam has ordered a full retreat. We're to take any still alive and leave early." Bernard wiped his forehead and grinned. "We can get out of here now!"

Jacqueline clipped on her cape and pulled her gloves back on. "I need to leave. Thank you for your hospitality."

"Ah, thank you for the company, lass. Perhaps our paths will cross again. If you're ever in Boston, come visit the mizzes and me. We'll be glad to have you." Martin adjusted his spectacles and nodded to her.

"Goodbye, doctor." She smoothly exited the tent.

_-o-_

_-So this chapter was, ah, quite short. This is a bit of a transition, but that's not to say this wasn't an important chapter. The next one will be a return to the Homestead, and then stuff is really gonna get crazy. Which is why this one is finished so quick! _

_-I really loved writing Martin, in case you didn't notice. His character and Bernard's were based on two similar people in the film _Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World, _which you should watch because it's amazing. _

_-Don't forget to __**review**__!_


	18. Not A Moment of Peace

"_I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it." –Mae West_

_-o-_

When the Assassins arrived back at the Homestead, there was little conversation. Jacqueline led Blanche to the stables and began taking the saddle from her back. Connor followed, and began doing the same to his own. There was a pause; she could feel the questions coming. Then, while she was hanging up the saddle, "Are you upset?"

She stopped and looked at Connor. "Upset?"

"You are acting oddly."

"Hmm." She nodded, and all at once exploded. "Upset? _Of course I'm upset!"_ Stalking around the front of the stables, she grabbed him by the front of his robe and shook him angrily. "What the hell were you _thinking_? You threw yourself at an _army! _Are you insane? _Are you insane?!" _

Taken aback, he grabbed her hands and shoved them away so he could stand up straight; she was a good few inches shorter than him. "It was the only way to get to Pitcairn."

"I just…_ugh!_ I was worried sick, I thought for sure you would get killed, and…" She shook her head, frazzled and agitated. "Don't you ever do anything so stupid ever again, you hear me?"

"I…" Connor seemed unsure of what to say. He was saved from answering, however, by the arrival of someone else.

"Ahoy there, Jack!" Thomas the lookout hopped over the fence to the stables, smiling.

"Oh! _Salut, _Thomas!" Jacqueline smiled.

"Good to see you back from givin' the Regulars what for, eh?" He gave her shoulder a friendly slap, and she pushed him back with a laugh. "That drunkard first mate Faulkner sent me soon as he heard you'd come back. Sounds like he's got a bit of a job for you pair. How you feelin' about getting' back on the sea?"

"It sounds like a good break from close combat." She agreed. "Right, Connor?" He only nodded in agreement. "_Alors, _we've nothing to do right now, so we may as well go."

Before they started off, Connor grabbed her arm. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

Jacqueline wanted to be angry with him. She really, really wanted to be angry. But being angry was hard when you weren't. So she sighed and turned to him. "I know. Just stop being so stupid."

She hesitated, and then pulled him into a short embrace. He smelled like grass and the sun. When he shifted closer to hug her back, lightly placing his arms around her waist, he accidentally stepped on her foot. Jacqueline yelped in pain. Connor stepped back from her like she was flammable, clearly concerned, but she only laughed and rubbed her warm face.

"Leave it to you to ruin a moment, Ratonhnhaké:ton." She shook her head. "Come on, the _Aquila _awaits."

As she turned to walk away Thomas intercepted her and picked her up, slinging her over his shoulder, holding her there by the knees. "Avast, fair maiden! I've come to kidnap you away to the Seven Seas!" And he awkwardly jogged away with his prize, chuckling.

Jacqueline laughed and let him carry her for as long as he could, which was about halfway down the hill to the wharf. They ran the rest of the way, and for a moment she felt like a child again. For a moment she could forget the things she had seen while working with Martin, and crossing Charlestown. For a moment, it was wonderful.

Then out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of something and promptly tripped in her shock. It was a magnificent trip, too, as they were on a hill, and she did a full somersault before coming to a stop on her backside. "It can't be…" She whispered.

Connor came jogging up behind her. "What happened?"

But she wasn't listening, and bolted off to dive into the foliage beside the path. "Get back here!" She cried. "Come back!"

"Jacqueline, what are you doing?" Connor asked. In response she drew out a throwing knife and hurled it into the nearest tree.

"The person stalking me!" She snapped. "They're _here. _They followed me to my _home, _that spineless coward."

"You said that they weren't going to harm you." Connor confirmed.

"_Ouais, _but I can't say the same for the other way around. Now let's go to the _Aquila _before I start ripping my hair out."

-o-

The first night on the ship was fun. It always was, because everyone was happy to be out to sea again, even though the following two weeks or so would be less merry and more boring. But for the time being they could enjoy themselves. Thomas brought Jacqueline and himself two bottles of rum—one each—and they got well and drunk along with the rest of the crew. Somehow, as Jacqueline's memory flickered in and out frequently, she and Thomas ended up above deck. They weren't alone by a long shot. There were still a few sorry souls clanking about and steering the ship and such while the rest made merry under their feet.

"Why is the rum gone?" Jacqueline lamented loudly to the sky, waving her empty bottle before throwing it over the side.

"I think…" Thomas hiccupped and giggled at himself. "I think you drank it all."

She nodded slowly, taking that in. "_Oui, oui. _Hm…yes, that makes sense."

The lookout laughed. "You're drunk!" He squealed.

"No, _you're _drunk." She countered, the pinnacle of eloquence. "Your _face _is dr…is drunk."

"Lass, you're _really _drunk. _Really _drunk. You're…" He trailed off and staggered, flailing in panic as his sense of balance left him alone with the rocking of the ship. When he righted himself, he said, "You know you're very pretty."

"Why thank you kind sir." Jacqueline gave him an exaggeratedly low bow, almost until her nose touched her knees. She was trying to speak in a British accent, which was getting mangled with her natural French one. "I declare you are a most handsome gentleman yourself. Forsooth!"

Thomas fumbled for her hand and spun her closer, and then dipped her down. Jacqueline giggled madly and patted his cheek. "Your face!" She exclaimed, rubbing his face. "It's all…scritchy scratchy." She tugged him down to kiss both sides of his face.

"Now that's a French 'ello!" He grinned.

Someone emerged from below decks, and Jacqueline could at least see that much. It was Connor, looking around in confusion. "Oh!" He said when he saw them. "I thought you were…I, uh…sorry." And he disappeared again.

"Poor bastard." Thomas moved them into a standing position. "Didn't mean for that to happen. Suppose this looked a bit," A hiccup. "Compromisin'."

"Compromising?" She stumbled to lean against the rail of the ship. "Why would it be compromising?"

He only shook his head in pity. "Poooor bastard. Best go after him."

Jacqueline didn't ask why she should, but it rather felt like she should and so she did. Getting down the stairs to the underbelly of the ship was a challenge in her current state of inebriation. Taking it slow and steady, she made it down and looked around for Connor. Probably having retreated to the captain's quarters, she made her way there. When she knocked on the door there was no answer at first.

"Connor?" She called at the doorframe. "I know you're awake, Connor!"

After a long pause, the door opened. He was still dressed in his captain's wear, though his trifold hat was sitting on his desk. Jacqueline had her own seafaring garb as well, though less extravagant. The way he was looking at her, though, made her brain clear up somewhat. It was unusual to see him as such, but she recognised the look. He was not happy with her.

"I thought you were with Thomas." His voice was cold.

"Just full of surprises, aren't I?" Jacqueline regarded him a moment. "So, what have I done wrong this time?"

"Nothing." He answered a bit too quick.

She rolled her eyes and snorted, perhaps a bit too loud. "Don't even try that with me, Ratonhnhaké:ton. I know you way too well for you to lie. By the way, you're a _really bad _liar."

Connor opened his mouth slightly to respond, his brow furrowed, looking conflicted. In that instant it struck Jacqueline like a slap to the face, and was surprised she hadn't noticed. Maybe she should stop drinking.

"_Mon dieu._" She said. "You're jealous of Thomas."

"No, I am not." Connor replied vehemently.

"Fine." She turned around and raised her voice. "Attention crew of the _Aquila, _Connor is j—!"

He slapped a hand over her mouth and dragged her backwards into the open door. When he released her inside, she laughed and jumped up to sit on his desk. "I knew it. What's your problem with him?"

"You barely know him." Connor snarled.

"So?" Jacqueline chuckled. "We were just having some fun."

"You cannot just go throwing yourself at random strangers—"

"What I do and who I throw myself at is my business, Ratonhnhaké:ton." She reached back and put his hat on. "And Thomas is hardly a random stranger."

He sighed, clearly frustrated. "I am trying to look out for your safety."

Jacqueline hopped off the desk and walked toward him with what could arguably be a saunter. She walked toward him until he was forced to back up, and continue to back up until he was against the wall, and even then she took another step closer so she was certainly within his personal space.

"Unless," She nearly purred, "You think I'm not throwing myself at the _right _random strangers."

Connor hesitated, watching her like she was a volatile explosive with something close to apprehension. "That was not what I meant." He paused. "You're drunk."

"That's quite possible." A pale finger reached up to fiddle with the braid next to his cheek, and she leaned in. Her other hand was lightly holding a strap that crossed his chest, though what purpose it served remained a mystery. "I hope that's not a problem."

He was so close she could feel the whisper of breath on her cheek. Every movement in the cabin seemed to have stopped, all the way down until that moment became the pause between heartbeats, the silence before thunder struck. His hands rested on her hips. She was close enough that she could again catch a whiff of his forest scent. Their noses brushed, and then ever so gently—

The entire ship rocked to the side with a massive _KA-BOOM! _The Assassins were thrown about the captain's quarters, Jacqueline especially due to her mental state. "What the hell was that?" She exclaimed.

Faulkner threw open the door. "We've been spotted, cap'n! Regulars!" He glanced and nodded at Jacqueline. He didn't question why she was in his room in the middle of the night.

"Not a moment of peace…" Jacqueline grumbled. Tossing Connor's hat to the side, she ran out of the cabin and onto deck.

There were indeed British ships; the Crown had likely grown and carefully tended to a vendetta against the _Aquila _after their first encounter outside Martha's Vineyard. That would explain their unwarranted attack, anyway. The crew was fumbling and sliding around the sea-sprayed deck—they were unprepared for battle, some had been sleeping and weren't even dressed, and all of them were at least a little bit tipsy. Meanwhile, the vessels on their starboard side didn't seem like they were going to stop their assault for the sake of fair play. It was absolute chaos.

"Whoa!" Jacqueline leaned back as a full bottle of wine went flying past her, followed by exactly one pair of trousers. She started to make her way to the main mast and tripped over some poor bloke putting on his boots.

That turned out to be a stroke of good luck for once, because a volley of cannon fire blasted apart some of the starboard hull, flinging chips of wood across deck. Eventually she managed to get to the mast and climb to the crow's nest. Thomas was already there, holding his head and groaning. "Just one day without some bloody British arses disturbing the peace…"

"Uh oh." Jacqueline grabbed a spyglass from their tiny storage up there and looked out at the ships. The largest one was steering directly at them. Turning her gaze up, she could even see the tiny figure of the lookout watching them through his own spyglass. "They're going to board us!"

"Then we've no time to pity our sorry hides." Thomas grabbed up the bayonets that were kept in the nest and handed one to her.

"I'm needed on deck. Watch yourself, Thomas." She grabbed a rope, cut it, and swung down to deck.

"And you too, Jack!" He called after her.

Jacqueline's feet touched the deck as the British ship smashed into the starboard side. Being tossed to and fro, she lurched to the side of the ship and heaved her guts out into the ocean. She needed to stop drinking. When she got a hold of herself, the ship was preparing for battle. Hooked lines were being tossed over the small gap between ships to keep them connected without chance of the _Aquila_'s escape. It was indeed a large frigate of war, and their smaller, fleeter ship stood little chance on its own.

Men trudged up from under the deck carrying guns and swords. There was a pause, stillness in the air where the grinding of wood on wood and steel singing and yelling came to a lull.

Then a fiery cloud of smoke and bullets erupted. Redcoats charged onto the ship, and the _Aquila_'s crew roared back with a thundering of footsteps and gunshots. Jacqueline thrust the bayonet through the chest of a Regular to her left, and pulled it out with so much force that the butt struck another soldier behind her in the face. She swung her leg out to trip him up and stabbed him into the _Aquila's _deck, now slippery with blood.

A flash of blue and white darted past her, and she watched as Connor recklessly jumped across to the attacking vessel. Part of her wanted to join him, part of her didn't, and part of her wanted to punch him in the face for doing exactly what she'd told him _not _to do earlier that day.

Movement to her left caught her attention, and she jumped out of the way as an axe-wielding thug barged through friend and foe alike, on a mission to chop her into tiny pieces. He stopped in front of her and laughed to expose yellow teeth. Before he could make any move at her, a hole appeared in the top of his head, and he crumpled.

Jacqueline looked up. In the crow's nest, Thomas waved at her with his smoking bayonet. "_Merci, _Thomas!" She called up.

The British ship was on fire. It smoked and clouded the clear night sky. That was Connor's doing, she supposed. Even as the thought went through her mind, he jumped back across the ships and landed in front of her. "Well, that was quick—"

Her statement was cut off as the ship exploded, with such a forced as to rock the _Aquila _in the water and send everyone on board toppling over from the shockwave. Flaming planks of wood rained down on them with _thunks_ and clattering. Tinnitus ringing in her ears, Jacqueline looked up to see nothing remaining of the frigate that had latched onto them.

"Huh." She said. "Learned from the best, I see." The prompting nudge she gave his side garnered no reaction from him but for a glance and frown her way. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. It's not the time. We have taken damage that needs to be addressed first." And he walked off, just like that.

Feeling rather disappointed, she sighed. "We'll be back to shore in no time, anyway. Yo ho ho."

_-o-_

_-The whole rum thing was a tip of the hat to Pirates of the Caribbean, yes it's true. _

_-I'm such a tease, oh you know I love you wee muffins. :3_

_-Don't forget to drop a sexy, sexy __**review!**_


	19. A First Time for Everything

"_A kiss can be a comma, a question mark or an exclamation point. That's basic spelling that every woman ought to know." -Mistinguett (Jeanne Bourgeois), __Theatre Arts__, December 1955_

_-o-_

Jacqueline was sitting on the roof of the manor, looking out over the forest, when Achilles called up to her from the front door. "Keep an eye out, girl. We're going to have a guest soon."

"A guest?" She crawled to the edge of the roof and looked down, but he was gone. "Who?"

Several minutes passed while she waited for their guest. In the meantime she contemplated the person who was following her. Instinct told her to believe what she could see with her eyes, but she didn't want to. It really just wasn't possible. Or she wanted to believe it wasn't possible. But that apple she could hold in her hand, palpable and real, was enough to prove hallucinations otherwise. The fish was perhaps the most telling clue that she wasn't losing her mind, however. _The fish. _But now they were bold, coming to the Homestead; it was only a matter of time until she was confronted. And when that happened, she didn't know what she would do.

A man on a speckled horse rode up to the manor. He had thinning brown hair and paunch features. Jacqueline watched him approach the house and knock on the door, without an answer. She climbed down some way, then jumped and landed almost in front of him.

"Oh!" He exclaimed and laughed. "You must be the dashing young lady Jacqueline. I've heard good things, my dear."

"Thank you. Who are you?"

"Benjamin Tallmadge, at your service. Don't worry; my father was an Assassin, no need for all that cloak and dagger that your kind is so fond of. May I?" He gestured to the door.

"Yes, come in." Jacqueline racked her mind for etiquette. "Would you like some tea? Achilles should be up shortly."

"That would be wonderful, thank you." Benjamin looked around the dining room as she tried to remember how tea was made. "Where's your colleague, that tall fellow?"

"Connor? He's in the basement, I believe, with Achilles." She put the kettle on and sat up on the huge kitchen table. "They're probably arguing."

Bisou trotted into the kitchen, her tongue lolling happily, and sat in front of Benjamin. "Ah. Hello there." He awkwardly tapped her head.

Jacqueline whistled and the hound magnetised to her master. "Don't bother people, Sou." She tossed the dog a piece of meat from the table. "Get out of here." And Bisou obediently left the premises.

"I don't believe I've seen a female Assassin yet." Benjamin noted, his tone that of small talk.

"We're a rare breed."

"I mean no disrespect, of course!" He waved his hands with a nervous laugh. "I'm sure you could easily overpower half the men of the Colonies, myself included."

"You overestimate me." She observed lightly. "You attempt to overcompensate for my gender by being kind to me and yet you remain uncomfortable. It would not be an issue if I was male, but alas I am not. I would prefer if you did not give me any special treatment because I'm a woman."

"Ah…" He struggled for words. "Er, well put, I should say. I'm sorry if I offended you."

"Not at all." Jacqueline beamed and hopped off the table to pour the tea into little ceramic cups. "Simply clarifying."

He blinked in confusion and accepted the tea. "I can see Connor has his hands full with you."

"What do you mean?" Jacqueline cut open an orange and squeezed it into her tea, getting a perturbed look from Benjamin.

"Oh, well, the word around the sewing circle is you two are nearly inseparable. Bold women are so often tricky to handle, he has his work cut out for him on both fronts." He chuckled kindly.

"Both fronts? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You know. On the battlefield and…well, the _battlefield_."

Jacqueline understood his tone of voice immediately and blushed. "You misunderstand, we're not…"

Achilles hobbled into the kitchen with a mischievous smirk on his weathered mahogany face, and stooped to pour himself a cup of tea. Jacqueline quickly intercepted to help him, and Connor came storming up the stairs a moment later. "Or you could just admit that you were wrong."

Their mentor chuckled and shook his head. "Oh child, please. You've killed two men—one more salesman than soldier. You're gonna have to try a lot harder than that to impress me. Thank you." He added to Jacqueline, and shuffled into the dining room.

"Is that so, old man?" Connor demanded, following. "Or perhaps we should step outside? I would gladly demonstrate how easily I could trounce y…"

He trailed off in embarrassment when he saw Benjamin was there. Jacqueline hid her grin behind her tea. "Connor, this is Benjamin Tallmadge. His father was one of us, no need for secrecy. I think he has something he wants to say." Achilles spoke almost as though to a child.

"Achilles tells me you've uncovered a plot to murder the Commander in Chief." Benjamin began.

"Yes. But I have only false starts and dead ends to show for it." Connor had put on his "mysterious assassin" persona despite Achilles' assurance that he was to be trusted.

"Not anymore, my friend. Thomas Hickey's your man, and I aim to help you catch him." Tallmadge set aside his tea and approached Connor to set a hand on his shoulder. The look Connor gave that hand made Jacqueline choke on her drink with laughter.

"How?"

"I'll explain on the way. The three of us are going to New York."

-o-

It was a fast journey to the city, and they arrived by boat only the next day. A bit of walking led them to a few horses that had been left for their use. The day was foggy and mild. They were outside the city somewhat, and would have to ride into town; they mounted their horses and set off at a canter.

"So what is your stake in all this?" Connor called ahead to their comrade.

"Same as yours—peace. Stability. A land in which all might live side-by-side, free and equal." Benjamin answered over his shoulder.

"Why not join the Brotherhood, then?"

"My father was an Assassin. Quite good at his job, too, from what I understand. But…I hope to have children some day. It's hard to live in two worlds at the same time. So I chose to live in one."

"I understand." Connor said, though how he could understand that point of view, Jacqueline had to wonder. Else he was just saying it because he didn't know what else to say because of his profound _lack _of experience in that field.

"I still contribute as best I can. That's why we're here now."

New York was quickly coming up on them. The rural area outside the main city had a tendency to suddenly disappear and give way to the buildings. After turning a couple corners of worn dirt road, they were on the main road through New York. To Jacqueline, it looked remarkably like Boston except for a few small differences.

"What do you know of Hickey?" She asked.

"He runs a counterfeiting ring in the city. Locate the source of this operation, and we can have him arrested. He cannot harm the Commander if he's in prison."

Their path led through a crowded market, and they had to slow their pace to avoid running people down. "Where is he?"

"I'm not exactly sure. But I do know where we can begin the search."

He led them down the road through the market, and eventually turned down a small side street. It was too small for their horses, so they left the mounts outside the alley and continued on foot. "There are rumours of bad bills being circulated here." Benjamin informed them. "No doubt they came from Thomas."

A commotion in a stall nearby caught their attention. "What're you up to?" The merchant snapped. "This isn't money! It's coloured paper! You've cheated me for the last time. Guards!" He threw the papers down at the feet of the man who was trying to buy, who quickly grabbed them up and hurried away.

"We need to follow him. Quickly, before he's gone." Jacqueline urged Connor on, and they began to tail the counterfeiter.

The path of the shady man led in a winding path around the city. It was a route that wound through the back streets and little garden courtyards in the centre of houses that were clutched together. He was a paranoid one, always looking over his shoulder and walking quickly. The bustling crowds helped conceal the Assassins while crossing the street, but in the alleys there was nothing for it but subterfuge. It took a long time; his destination was nearly across the city. At one point things got confused and sketchy due to a guard catching him and shaking him down, making the criminal double back the way he had come.

There was a moment where Jacqueline was struck by a bolt of nostalgia. She peeked around the corner to check on their mark, and found that he had stopped to suspiciously look back. Connor went charging on around the corner, and though she pulled him back, the counterfeiter must have caught a glimpse, for footsteps approached.

"Just like old times." She fell back against the wall she had peered around and pulled Connor against her.

"What are you…?" He started.

"Quickly or we'll be seen." She whispered and tugged him down into an embrace, but even that didn't quite work.

"Oi! Who's back there?" Their quarry called back. "Show yourself!"

Just after that fateful warning, as the footsteps approached ever quicker with paranoid worry, their eyes locked. It was a sort of silent, mutual realisation; for a moment, just a fraction of a second no quicker than the beat of her heart, she almost felt she could read Connor's mind, and what she read there was a last resort. There was that brief, ever so brief hesitation during which she took in a short, anticipatory breath. Then, to honor their essentially psychic agreement, Connor bowed his head and softly kissed her.

"Hrm. Sorry, then. My mistake." The counterfeiter grumbled, and walked away from them. "Bloody kids…"

It was clear neither of them were listening, however. Any preoccupied thoughts Jacqueline might have had about tailing this man or killing him had been instantly wiped clean. It felt more like her entire body had gone up in a flash of fire, and there left only a burnt out cinder on earth. Distantly she could feel Connor's hand behind her head and his other pressed flat against the small of her back to pull her closer and away from the wall. Her own fingers clutched at his shoulders, like they had suddenly become little worms with minds of their own.

They broke apart for a moment and reconnected just as quickly. Connor kissed her with something close to hunger, a man deprived of sustenance for too long and now had a banquet laid out before him. It left her breathless just trying to compete with his level of…enthusiasm. She felt the cool slip of his tongue graze the scar on her mouth.

Jacqueline pulled back from surprise, but also for air. When she looked up at him, Connor seemed just as dazed, if not more so. "Right," She said lightly, almost chipper. "Well, ah…we should…probably keep moving, or we'll lose him."

She gently squirmed away from his hold on her, and it took him a few extra seconds for his brain to apparently kick-start back into an operational state. Luckily for them, their prey didn't have much further to go after that. He stopped to converse with another member of his lucrative business for a spell in a similar courtyard not far off, and they listened in on the conversation until the men took separate paths, and now their new target was the other man.

This one was definitely more paranoid. He checked over his shoulder even more often, and it took all the skills she knew not to be spotted. The way that she and Connor tailed people when they were together was something they had down to something of a science. One would take the roofs, the other the streets. If something happened to hinder one or the other—guards on the roof, a firing line in the street—the compromised party would join the other. It was just random happenstance that they both were on ground level in that little grassy courtyard.

He cut a path through half the city on his way to Hickey's hideout. Through gardens and across streets and around tight corners he turned, finally meeting up with another compatriot just before entering a tiny brick building.

The Assassins relaxed from their hiding spots and approached the door. Jacqueline considered picking it, briefly, but that thought was promptly cut off when Connor charged forward and bashed the door in. Inside, a small collection of men were hunched over a table, Hickey among them. This latter looked up a frowned.

"Was' this?" He asked. His voice was like a constant drunken slur, even though he was likely sober.

"Thomas Hickey?" Connor asked.

"Might be. What's it to ya?"

Connor flicked out his hidden blade and spun it from its sheathe so he could hold it like a dagger. Jacqueline drew her sword and held it toward the ground.

"Ain't supposed to be none of your kind left." Hickey observed, stepping back. "Suppose I'd best be rectifyin' that, then. Get 'em!" He shoved one of the other men toward the pair and sprinted out the back door with a bag of faux money in his hand.

Jacqueline quickly dispatched the unfortunate guard with a cut across the chest. Connor completely ignored that and dove out the window, shattering glass into the street. She followed him a beat later after rolling her eyes, and found that all three of them had stumbled right into the arms of the law.

"There's more of 'em!" One of the guards cried. His partner held Hickey by his lapels. "Grab 'em!"

In the ensuing chaos, all Jacqueline could recall was a lot of running. A _lot _of running. Running from guards, running after Hickey and by extent running after Connor, running across busy streets and running into people, running out of breath and running into walls, thoughts of the kiss running through her head until finally she ran into Connor, who had finally caught Hickey. It was almost over, then.

"Be still! You will do no more harm." Connor shoved Hickey into a wall, lifting him slightly so his feet hovered just above the ground.

"You're a right fool meddlin' in affairs ya know nothing about. You and the French bitch." He nodded back to Jacqueline with a sneer.

Connor pulled him back and slammed him back against the brick with surprising force. "Washington's the only thing keeping the Continental Army together. You kill him, and you end all hope for freedom."

"Wrong, boy-o. Wit 'im gone, they'd have no choice but to promote Lee. And then—"

Before he could finish whatever scheme he'd been cooking, an enforcer of the law grabbed both Hickey and Connor and pulled them apart. Another officer grabbed Jacqueline as though she would run off. "You are all under arrest!"

"Uh, we were just havin' a scrap, officers. Ain't nothin' wrong with two men settlin' their differences the old fashioned way. Can't we come to a—"

"Quiet!" Connor bellowed, then turned to the officer holding him. "What are the charges?"

"Counterfeiting!" Another soldier approached them with the bag of fake money in his hands.

"We had nothing to do with that!" Jacqueline protested.

"'Course not." He nodded sarcastically.

"Listen, there are more important things at stake here, this man is planning to—agh!" The first officer cracked Connor upside the head and he promptly fell face first into the dirt.

"Connor!" Jacqueline exclaimed, surprised at the sudden turn of events.

"And don't go gettin' any ideas, missy. You're headin' off to jail same as the rest of 'em." The blue-coated man waved his baton at her.

For a moment she considered resisting. But then she would be in even worse trouble, and what was she supposed to do about Connor, now unconscious? So with great reluctance, she hung her head as she, Hickey, and Connor were carted away to prison.

_-o-_

_-Bloody hell you guys like Thomas._

_-FINALLY, am I right? Man, I had you guys going there. I hope this didn't feel too, I don't know, sudden? This is actually a plot point (sorta kinda) and it had to happen before the events of the next couple chapters took place._

_-I swear his name is Connor Don't-Fucking-Touch-Me-(Unless-You're-Jacqueline)-Or-I'll-Kick-Your-Ass-Stay-The-Fuck-Away-From-Me Kenway_

_-__**Review **__because I finally gave you greedy bastards a kiss._


	20. Behind Bars

"_If by my life or death I can protect you, I will." –J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Fellowship of the Ring

_-o-_

The cell that she was tossed into was, in a word, vile. The only opening it had was the barred door, and that just gave her a good view of the cells across from her. The light was dim, barely there at all. She had been forced to change into rags that were originally meant for a man, as they hung on her shoulders and hardly fit at all. She found that somewhere along the way her hair had been knocked loose, and she began the arduous task of braiding it back together.

Across from her, Hickey wasn't looking very worried. "'Ello, love."

"You don't look very worried." She noted coldly. "Once the other prisoners learn what you were planning to do, they will tear you apart."

"Don't worry 'bout me, beau'iful. The cavalry's comin'." He smirked.

In the cell next to his, and diagonal from Jacqueline, Connor stirred. He had been unconscious since they'd been caught, and she was relieved he was waking up. For a while, she thought he'd actually been injured. "You." He stood unsteadily at the night of Hickey, through a hole in the wall.

"You miss me, swee'heart?" Hickey's taunts got no response. "What? Nothin' to say?"

"If you are here then Washington is safe."

"True, true. Thing is, I believe I've just been pardoned."

A small party walked down the hall toward them, led by a prison guard. Among them were none other then Charles Lee and Haytham Kenway, Connor's father. The guard opened the door to Hickey's cell and he stepped out, brushing himself off. "Thank you kindly for the rescue, gents."

"There can be no further mistakes, Thomas." Haytham ordered with imperial authority. "Am I understood?"

"What about this—these Assassins?" That made both Lee and Haytham stop and turn. "That's right. They're here, both of 'em. Guess we didn't catch 'em all, eh?"

"Deal with this, Charles." Haytham said firmly, and walked away.

"At once, sir." Lee nodded, and then slowly turned to face Connor. "You're that boy from the Continental Congress. Adams' little lapdog." He looked back at Jacqueline. "And the woman who follows him. How fortuitous." He paused. "I think I have an idea. Yes…two birds with one stone."

"Do tell." Hickey urged eagerly.

"In due time. It's not like the Assassins are going anywhere." He addressed Hickey once more. "For now, we should see about getting you better accommodations here.

"What're you on about?" Hickey stopped. "I thought I was gettin' out!"

"You can thank Benjamin Tallmadge for that. He's been running his mouth, saying all sorts of things. You're being investigated for plotting to assassinate George Washington."

"What a load of bullocks!"

"We'll discuss this later." Lee said it with a tone of finality. The Templars left, presumably off to find Hickey more suitable quarters.

Jacqueline pressed her face against the bars to look down the hall. "Are they gone?" Connor didn't answer, and she didn't press him, because he was likely stewing in anger. From somewhere in the mess that was now her hair, she produced a little splinter of metal—a lockpick.

That was when Connor noticed her. "Where did you get that?"

"Never doubt a woman's resourcefulness, Ratonhnhaké:ton." She patted herself down. "Now, where did that…ah, here." From down her shirt she produced a shiv-like companion to the lockpick. "Keep a look out."

Though dubious, Connor looked down the hall while she twisted her arms outside the bars to pick the lock. It was easy, since it only took her maybe thirty seconds to pick even with her hands at odd angles. "Ha!" The door sprung open, and she stepped out. "Now let's get you out of here."

When she stooped to pick Connor's cell, however, a guard rounded the corner and saw her. "Oi! Stop right there!"

For some reason, she actually did freeze for a moment. But she turned and ran down the hall the other way, slipping and skidding on the damp floor, her bare feet getting scratched up. That turned out to be a bad decision, because it ended in a brick wall. She whirled around to run back the other way, but that guard was a lot closer than she had thought, and he grabbed her before she could take another step. There had been a chance, but she wasn't going to kill anyone in prison, even though it was laughably easy. So she let him drag her back to their cellblock.

"Looks like we got a restless one on our hands," He said to another guard that he rendezvoused with on the way back. They reached her cell, but that wasn't the one they opened. "Wanna bunk down with the native, then? Maybe this'll cool those coals under your feet, girl."

They threw her hard enough that she almost fell, but Connor caught her before she hit the ground. "Are you okay?"

"I really want to kill something, but other than that, I think I'll live." Jacqueline brushed herself off and looked around. "What now?"

He thought about it for a moment. "We find a way to escape. Then we kill Thomas Hickey before he can get to Washington."

Jacqueline nodded, then looked up at him. "You look terrible." She held his chin and turned his head a little. There was a huge purple bruise swelling around his right eye, originating from a scabbed cut. The front of the shirt he had been given was stained with old blood.

"It's just a scratch." He leaned away.

"Nothing we can do about it here." She sighed. "_Dieu…_how are we going to get out of here?"

The rest of the day was spent sitting on their bed, which was just a slab of chipped stone with a straw pillow. It certainly gave them plenty of time to talk. Some of the talk was about escape, but after a couple hours they got off topic. Jacqueline mused aloud on what Achilles would think of their getting caught. That thought made them both cringe and it was quickly dropped. They listened in on a conversation between their prison mates next door about a man named "Weems" who was carving a key to escape. Eventually, however, the inevitable came about.

"So…" Jacqueline pursed her lips to one side. "We're not going to talk about it, are we?"

He glanced sideways at her. "Talk about what?"

"Don't play dumb. You know what."

There was a moment of silence, and she could tell he was thinking hard about his choice of words. "I am…unsure what you want me to say."

"_Alors, _neither do I, that's why I asked you."

He rubbed his brow. "It was…unexpected. I have never pursued a relationship."

"I know."

"Was that your intention?"

"My _intention _was camouflage. The unintended side effect is that we're now in an awkward position."

"So what now?"

"Good question."

There was another long pause, this one considerably more awkward. It lasted a long time, until the sun outside the barred, fogged over window faded into darkness and she felt fatigue crawl up and settle in her eyes. "It's getting late." Connor noted.

"Do you have a coin to flip for the bed?"

"No."

"Thought not. You take it, then."

"No."

"Oh, no you don't. We aren't going to do this again." Jacqueline scooted back on the bed. "We can both have the bed."

Even from a bit behind him, she could see his skin darken with a blush. "Are you…?"

"No. It's just so we are not doing the same song and dance about who gets the bed." She smirked. "But if you're so eager, I _suppose…_"

The look he shot her—somewhere between "are you serious?" and pure panic—whirling his whole torso around to do so, made her break down laughing. "I'm kidding! I'm kidding."

Connor visibly relaxed and sat back to lie down on their "bed". Jacqueline scooted back against his chest and closed her eyes. The beat of his heart against her ear lulled her into an uneasy sleep.

-o-

The clashing of metal on metal made Jacqueline's years of twitchy sleeping kick in, and she jerked up with a gasp. "Get up!" A guard yelled at them. The cell door was open and Connor was floundering for her since she had flopped off the stone slab and was sitting on the moldy floor.

"Where are we going?" Connor asked, a touch of drowsiness to his voice.

"Stay out of trouble or you'll wind up in the pit." Was the guard's only warning before he started leading them out to the yard.

"Connor," Jacqueline muttered as they walked out. "Put your arm. Around my waist. Now."

He frowned and glanced sideways at her. "Why?"

"I'm likely one of the only women here. It's territorial, trust me."

It was awkward and stiff, but he did as she asked. As they were paraded before the other prisoners, the inmates shouted jeers to them. "What're you lookin' at, half-breed?" "You don't understand English, that it?" "Oi, darling, why don't you come over here?" "Let's show 'er how a real man does it, eh?"

"We should try to find this Weems fellow." Connor told her when they reached the bottom level of the yard. "If he intends to escape, perhaps he can help us."

Jacqueline pulled herself closer to him at the looks some of the other prisoners were giving her. "Let's find him fast, then."

"There." He guided her through the crowd of dirty, foul-smelling inmates to one young man sitting at a table by himself. If this was Weems, he certainly wasn't what Jacqueline had expected. He was possibly younger than her, with a narrow face and short black hair. He didn't look up at them. Connor glanced around and leaned in. "Mason Weems?"

"Could be." Weems placed a white playing piece down on the board.

Connor pulled out the other chair and sat in it. Jacqueline, seeing no other seats, simply sat on his lap. He gave her a look, but continued. "They say you have a way out of here."

"_They _say a lot of things…" He replied cryptically, the corner of his mouth turning up. He was toying with them.

Before he could put another piece down on the board, Connor grabbed his hand. "I do not have time for games."

"Shame, as I was hoping you might play one with me." He glanced between them. "One of you."

Connor was the player, and Jacqueline watched the game. It was something like chess, or checkers, without the different pieces. In fact, it was a lot closer to checkers. The board had only certain places you could set your piece, however, and so it became a game of strategy. While they played, Jacqueline was their ambassador, so Connor could focus on playing. "Seeing as you already know mine—what're your names?"

"I'm Jacqueline. This is Connor."

"Pleased to meet you both." Weems watched as Connor placed a white circle on one of the little teaspoon-sized dents in the wooden board. "Well played! So, what brings you to Bridewell?"

"We have been falsely accused of counterfeiting."

"_Sure _you have…" He nodded sarcastically.

"You don't believe me?"

"Why should I? You have the look of a brothel girl—take that as a compliment—and your companion has that of a brute."

"You would be wrong. We are not criminals."

"And yet imprisoned. Tell me how you found yourselves in this place."

"That's…confidential."

"As is what you ask of me…"

Jacqueline exhaled through her nose. "Our plans went awry. We're trying to stop a murder."

"Oh?" Weems looked impishly amused again, breaking his focused stare from the board for a brief second to look them over again. "Anyone I know?"

"George Washington." She confided, a little reluctantly.

The smirk on his face dropped instantly, to be replaced with anger. The game was clearly over. "The others put you up to this, didn't they? Thought it might be fun to have another laugh at Mason's expense? Fools, the lot of them, to make light of something like this."

He stood in his outrage and paced in an irritated circle before facing them again. "George Washington is brave beyond measure, loyal like a brother, peerless in character, and unshakeable in his convictions!" The Assassins exchanged a short glance, and Jacqueline leaned back against Connor's shoulder while Weems continued his rant. "That man is our Jupiter Conservator, destined to lead us not just to freedom, but greatness. Anyone who says otherwise is either a simpleton or a traitor."

"Then you understand why we need to get out of here." Connor pointed out. "If I don't help him, he is going to die."

Weems stared at them, but the anger was slowly draining from him. As though his aggravation had been all that was holding him up, he sank back into his chair. "You're serious, aren't you?" Their faces left no room for jest. "Very well. But it's going to take some doing. See, everything hinges on the key I forged. But that lout Finch stole it! Took me three months to make that thing, too. You need to get it back or we're not going anywhere."

Connor stood, letting Jacqueline slide off his lap and plop into the chair. "Consider it done." He pointed at her. "Stay here."

Jacqueline made a face at his retreating back. Weems sat back in his chair, content to wait. "You aren't really his lover, are you?" It wasn't a question; it was an observation.

She raised an eyebrow. "Who says I'm not?"

He shrugged. "I have a way with people. I'll keep this our little secret; don't worry. You're smart for doing what you are. Without him you'd be in trouble in this place."

"I thought as much." Jacqueline anxiously rubbed the loose tip of her braid, the hair greasy under her fingers. "What did you do to get in here?"

"Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. It catches up with you, you know. I've been here a few months already. It's not too bad, once you get used to the food."

She smiled and nodded. "I don't think there's much worse than prison food."

-o-

_-coughforshadowingcough_

_-Also super fast update! Confetti, it's a parade!_

_-I imagine that it wouldn't really matter who you were because after some research into prisons, I concluded that they sucked. There wasn't much on women in prison…I kind of assumed that in those times everyone was kinda tossed in the same place. _

_-There will be more prison, of course, though it will only be for the next chapter. I considered stretching it out, but then this chapter would have been _really_ long. _

_-WEEEEEEEEEEEEMMMMSSSS _

_-I bloody adore Weems and his Washington fanboying. And Colin Morgan would be my ideal Weems. _

_-__**Review **__for Weems! _


	21. Cloak and Dagger

"_A lover is a man who tries to be more amiable than it is possible for him to be." -Nicholas de Chamfort_

_-o-_

The prison was haunting at night. Sometimes it was so quiet and still that it could have been a cemetery, lit silver blue with moonlight. Jacqueline paced her and Connor's shared cell, her footsteps and quiet breathing like a nervous melody. Her fingers plucked at the shoulders of her dirty shirt to keep it from falling off. Now outrageously long, her hair wagged back and forth like a tail while she walked.

"We need a plan." She decided, grasping her braid. "If we break out with no plan, this will have been in vain. Where do we go from here?"

"I have watched the guards leaving through a room on the top floor." Connor turned the carved key over in his hands. "That's likely the closest way out."

"The guard passes by in a few minutes. We should try before the next one sees."

A few minutes ticked by. An owl hooted outside, not far from their tiny barred window. Someone clanged against the bars of their door on the other side of the yard, and a few others shouted at him to shut up. The guard they were waiting for passed, and Connor stood to try the key. It jangled in the lock, but after a few seconds of trying, clearly didn't work.

"This key is useless!" Connor hissed.

"_What?" _

"What're you looking at?" The next guard was a little ahead of schedule, and he snarled at them. Connor backed away from the door, and he left.

"Weems gave us a fake?" Jacqueline didn't expect an answer. "Why?"

"Perhaps he is working with the Templars." Connor sat down on their stone bed.

She joined him. "But why give us a key at all, then?"

Silence fell over the prison again. Jacqueline dropped onto her back and sighed. "We may as well sleep now and find Weems in the morning."

They did just that, and the next morning when they were let out of their cells, Connor went on a Weems hunt. George Washington's biggest fan was near where they had found him the day before, sitting by himself and writing in a journal with a short gray quill.

"Your key is useless!" Connor accused. Jacqueline felt his fingers tighten into her waist and wriggled uncomfortably.

"What do you mean?" Weems finished writing a sentence and looked up at them, like they were just tax collectors who could be given time to wait.

"It did not fit the lock."

"It's not meant to." Weems said it like it was obvious.

"Then why did you give us a fake key?" Jacqueline demanded. "It doesn't work!"

"Well, that all depends on what you mean by "work". It'll get us out of here, just not the way you expected.

The Assassins looked at each other, equally skeptical. "Then how?" Connor asked.

Weems sat forward. "You're going to use it to get the real key off the warden. You're going to swap that key for his."

"Why not just have me take the real key? Why all this extra work?"

"He might notice if it's missing. This way, he'll be none the wiser."

"Wait, wait." Jacqueline waved a hand as though to waft away the conversation. "There's a hole in your plan. What if the warden tries using the fake?"

"He won't. That's why we're targetting him."

"Then how do we reach the warden?"

"Yes…this next part you may not like." Weems dipped his quill in the inkwell and tapped it off inside.

"As if I've liked the others? Out with it!" Connor was a man to get impatient quickly, and Weems' constant amusement wasn't helping. That was why he had Jacqueline.

"Patience, Connor." She soothed, placing her hand over the one he had on her waist.

"You'll need to pick a fight." Weems told them. At their looks, he continued, "If you pick a fight they'll throw you in the pit."

"How in the world does this help us?" Connor demanded.

"The warden oversees the pit. Getting sent there is the only way to reach him. And only one of you two should do it." He added quickly. "I may need some help up here in the land of the living. So decide who goes down."

There was no discussion, actually. Jacqueline knew any argument about her going to the pit was going to be useless. She broke away from Connor and sat in the chair across from Weems with a defeated sigh. He was the only person she knew who could win an argument without even starting one.

"I'll give you credit…you've given this plan to risk my life a great deal of thought." Connor placed his hands on the back of her chair.

"Take down as many as you can." Weems continued as though he hadn't heard him. "One or two will only serve to entertain the guards. You need to make them angry. We all have our part to play. Try not to die."

"Hey," Jacqueline reached back and grabbed Connor's arm before he could walk off. He stepped back and looked inquisitively down at her. "For good luck." She pulled him down to her level and kissed his cheek. "See you on the other side."

So she and Mason Weems sat and watched while Connor boldly strode into the middle of the yard and up to a gang of criminals. He turned one around by the shoulders and punched him in the face. Weems laughed and Jacqueline cringed at the force of the blow. The others of the first man gang, about six in total, surrounded Connor. Around them, a larger ring of prisoners blocked off their view.

The crowd would roar and thrash occasionally, like a beast of its own accord. Jacqueline could only imagine what kind of fight must be happening inside that ring. Weems was standing on his table, looking over the heads of the inmates. At her amused look, he moved aside for her to join him.

It was Connor against five others. Two men were on the ground, and faint spatter of blood here and there. The faint, meaty _thunks _as fists connected to bodies were near grotesque. It was uncensored brutality, even worse than normal. Something about the rags, or environment, or the enemies he was up against made it that much more violent. There was no question as to whether Connor could handle himself in a fight; she already knew he could. The question was how many men would he beat half to death before the guards stepped in.

The answer to that was seven. Finally, a guard pushed through the ring of inmates and struck Connor over the head twice with his baton. Now stunned, reinforcements stepped in and dragged him away.

Weems hopped off the table. "Well, there we have it. Now we wait until tonight. That's my cell." He pointed. "You'll have to help me spring out so we can rendezvous with Connor."

"And how do _I _spring out?" Jacqueline asked.

"I'm afraid I can't be of much help there."

"I see."

"Just wait until it's dark, and try not to get caught." He smiled and looked back to his journal. Jacqueline was about to interrogate him further, but then they were called back into their cells, and she trudged reluctantly away.

-o-

That night she had to think about how she could break out of her cell. She stared at the ceiling, the rotting wood planks and stone masonry. A leak of dirty water dripped down next to her leg. Stone wouldn't work, because it had to be small enough to move the tumblers. She anxiously wrung her braid around her hand. Her lockpick had been lost on their first try at freedom, as had her handmade tool to turn the lock.

Ghostly footsteps echoed down the hall, a whisper of movement in the quiet cellblock. For a moment, she believed it was a guard, but that was disproven when the figure shadowed the door. Just by the boots she could see that he was no guard, nor was he barefooted Weems. A hooded head turned this way and that, being sure he was not being watched. The moonlight from the window behind Jacqueline illuminated a face half covered by a cloth over his mouth and nose. She sat up. It was her stalker.

"Why are you here?" She spoke her question in French.

He replied in the same language. "To help." A light twinkling of metal drew her eyes to the floor, where a few lockpicks had been tossed.

She watched them for a moment. "Why are you following me?"

"Sometimes even the best need assistance." A whistling birdcall from far away, outside the prison, made him look over his shoulder. "I'll see you soon."

"Wait, don't…" Jacqueline lunged toward the door, hands groping out the bars, but he was gone. "…go."

She looked at her feet. The lockpicks were cold and hard under her soles, and she shifted away. Quickly snatching them up before the guards saw, she tucked them into the waist of her trousers but for one. Using that one, she picked her cell door and snuck out. It took her a few minutes to remember where Weems' cell was, but she found him and sprung him.

"Good to see you in one piece." He greeted with a tone that suggested he expected her to have gotten him out all along.

"Connor will have gotten the key off the warden by now. We should go meet him."

They jogged off, avoiding the guards' paths. It was hard to see by moonlight, but it almost looked like there was a group of people walking down the corridor. Weems vanished, the little weasel he was, leaving Jacqueline to jump over the banister and hide over the edge of the wall. Boots stomped past her head and around the corner toward her now empty cell. A little sliver of panic wormed into her, but she brushed it off and rejoined the now visible Weems.

The pair was slipping down the steps to the lower yard when they heard the yell above their heads. "Go, go." Jacqueline waved Weems on and took one of the lockpicks from her trouser belt out.

"We're all getting out of here."

"Not today we aren't. I'll be fine." She physically pushed him on. "Now go!"

He ran off toward the pit, leaving Jacqueline to turn and face recapture. A pair of guards walked toward her, leading two other men. It took her a moment to realise one of those men was Thomas Hickey, and the other was Charles Lee. In another moment she considered running right after Weems to warn him of their fools errand, but decided against it and stood her ground.

"How'd you know she was out?" One of the guards asked Lee.

"Her cell was empty, was it not? Surely she was still on the grounds. Where's that native boy you like so much?" Lee turned his attention to Jacqueline.

"Don't bother, sir. This one's made a try to escape on 'er first day. Reckon she ain't gonna talk much."

Jacqueline's hand was a flash in the dark, and the lockpick she had stashed flicked past Hickey's ear and clinked against the floor behind him. "Whoa-ho, don't suppose you'll be doin' much damage with that now, will ya?" He chuckled.

"No matter. Eventually, she will bow." Lee smiled greasily at her. "How ironic. In your plan to escape you fled right into our arms. I do believe you will be of much use to us in the coming days." He turned to the guards. "You know what to do. Come along, Thomas."

Jacqueline managed to keep her expression impassive while they bound her hands, tied a gag in her mouth, and finally blindfolded her. The strike to her head was a surprise, though. It left her dazed and seeing flashes of red and white. Hands grasped her under her arms and began dragging her. Kidnapped in the dead of night, only to be taken _out _of prison, she thought. Ironic indeed.

Fresh air cooled her face, and she knew she was outside. Her bare toes scraped across the dirt, then stone, then dirt again, and finally grass. Horses nickered nearby, and she was heaved into the air and onto the back of one of the snorting beasts. Blind, handicapped and mute, she was powerless as the horse was mounted by who she assumed to be one of the guards. He spurred the horse on, and they galloped off into the brisk autumn night.

And so began her torture.

-o-

_-Who's our mystery guest?_

_-__**Review **__for Weems!_


	22. Sweat and Blood

_(Warning: this chapter contains graphic images that may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.)_

"_When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire." –Douglas Campbell_

-o-

When the rag was finally ripped from her eyes, Jacqueline's wrists were already sore from being bound. The room she was in seemed to be some kind of interrogation chamber. It was chill and dank, and especially dark. In fact, she wasn't sure she had ever experienced darkness quite as absolute as the kind she now sat in. The smell of coals and smoke permeated the air, chokingly concentrated. She seemed to be tied to the chair she was sitting in, her arms behind her. Even as she sat, her shoulders started to ache from the awkward position. Little scuffs and breathing told her she was far from alone.

A candle flared to life, illuminating the face of Charles Lee. "Hello, Assassin."

She didn't respond.

"Well, now you know why we so generously paid your bail. That savage boy can stay in prison and face the consequences for what he's done. You, however, are going to prove of much use." He started circling around her, and it was only then that she realised they still were not alone. The light of the candle cast shadows over the figure of a huge, hulking brute of a man.

"I hope you're in the loop with your lot," Lee continued. "Because information is going to be your saving grace. Without information, well, I'm afraid we have less than no use for rubbish. And you know what happens to rubbish." He leaned in close to her face so she could smell his foul breath. "It is _disposed of_."

Jacqueline leaned away, curled her lip, and spat in his face. She had a long running habit of spitting in faces. Lee drew back in surprise and wiped his face off.

"Such loyalty!" He chuckled, undeterred. "We'll see how far loyalty gets you, in the end." He turned to the Brute, who was shifting coals in a large kettle. "Let's start with the basics, shall we?"

The beginning was the worst, in retrospect. It was the first time she had ever been tortured for information, and she had been wholly unprepared for the no-nonsense brutality. For instance, she learned that "the basics" was some code for punching her in the face until she could feel her nose break and her cheeks went numb from pain.

Every blow was like getting struck with a hammer; the Brute was a solid wall of reeking, hairy Templar muscle. He never tired, either. How long her face was abused, she wasn't sure. It felt like hours. Each strike, she felt his knuckles ripple angrily along her orbital socket or cheekbone, bruising with every one. There was some self-inflicted pain that played a role as well, for she bit the inside of her cheek almost constantly. They would not break her.

The next fifteen minutes were blows to her abdomen and stomach. It was worse, much worse. Jacqueline could distinctly feel ribs cracking. Through all of this, Lee was watching. Always watching. He asked questions every few minutes, but it became useless. Even if she _wanted _to talk, it was an effort just to breathe.

"Enough." Lee declared suddenly, stopping the Brute mid-punch. "That's enough for now. I suggest you get your rest, Assassin. It's a busy day tomorrow."

The door opened, revealing a flash of hall not much brighter than her room. Lee extinguished the candle and slammed the door shut behind them. The clicks as each lock slid into place secured a deeper pit of dread in her heart. When the noises had stopped, and she was alone with her darkness, she wriggled her fingers to try and get some leverage in her bondage. It was no use, really. Those were some tight ropes. After finding that it was essentially pointless, she yelled in frustration. That really hurt, though, and the yell lost all bravado when it ended in a whimper.

-o-

The next day, or what she assumed to be the next day—it was hard to tell—things were about the same. Lee and the Brute came in, beat her nearly senseless while interrogating about plans and allies and locations all the while. "This would be much easier on you if you cooperated." Lee smoothed back the greasy black tendrils of hair from his balding head.

To this she did not respond but for a small shaking of her head. "Pity." He sighed, with no hint of remorse at all.

-o-

Rats were a common sound while she was alone, and that by itself put her at unease. The scuttling, scurrying, chittering little bastards must have a labyrinthe under her feet, because every time any food was dropped, they flocked in what sounded like the dozens. It was disgusting.

Speaking of the food, that was the most humiliating part. The first couple days, she simply refused to eat. For Lee would not untie her hands, and rather let the Brute feed her tough bread and water from a tin cup like a child. It was barely enough to keep her alive, and the bread hurt to chew.

Eventually, the darkness became comfort. It was a sign that for the moment, she was safe. She treasured that darkness, that utter oblivion away from the light and the pain.

-o-

Things only got worse. Time lost all meaning in her little room. It could have been days, or even hours. Though, she suspected she'd been there an average of ten days, maybe a fortnight. Lee and the Brute had a schedule: they would arrive in what she felt was the mid-morning, stayed for several hours, and left disappointed with no new information.

Her thoughts drifted while they left her alone to starve for hours. For some reason that she found embarrassing, she often thought of Connor. The reason that it was embarrassing was because these thoughts weren't always so honourable.

Now it is worthwhile to note, in Jacqueline's opinion, that not only were things a blur of agony, but also boring. Once she adjusted to the new waves of pain inflicted by the Brute, it was nothing but hours and hours of black nothing. Worse than sleep, worse than death. Her mind was like a ball of string that was unraveling and fraying from pain and exhaustion.

-o-

The last words she had said to him had been, "See you on the other side." And she had kissed his cheek. Jacqueline was coming to realise that they could very well be the last thing she had said to him. Perhaps "the other side" was something else.

That little kiss stood out in her mind. His cheek had been a little rough after several days of not shaving. She wasn't sure she ever recalled his face being rough. Did he shave with the hidden blade? If and when she ever got out, she would have to ask. Then she wondered what his hair felt like. Would it be dry? It looked very soft.

A tiny snort, painful and giddy, wiggled its way from her bleeding nose. For the first time in three days, she lost consciousness.

-o-

Jacqueline was woken by the door opening. There was hardly enough…_starch_ left in her to even lift her head to look. The coals, always burning in the cauldron, were stirred by the Brute while Lee lit the candle as normal. The Brute cracked his knuckles, and Jacqueline took a deep breath.

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary." A familiar voice commanded. "Look up, Assassin. At me."

Jacqueline obeyed. It wasn't the kind of voice you ignored. When she saw him now, up close, she knew he could only be his father. The jaw, the nose. A steely glint in his eye. The way he held his hands, even. Even if she hadn't known who he was, it was obvious in that instant. There was so much of Connor in him.

In greeting, she nodded once to him, the only gesture even moderately close to respect she'd shown to anyone in the past few weeks.

"I understand you haven't been very cooperative." Haytham went on.

She sneered and raised a shoulder in a shrug. The blood on her upper lip and chin flaked at the movement.

"Now, torture isn't my forte. I'm here not to inflict punishment, but rather to, perhaps, cut a deal with you. It will be very fair, I assure you."

Jacqueline couldn't gesture for him to continue, so remained silent.

"All we want is a little bit of information. A few names or locations would suffice. And then we'll set you free. I will personally escort you to Boston and you can do what you will there." He was circling her now, hands clasped behind his back as he laid out his deal like normal business. "This is very much in your favour."

The parched desert of her throat burned when she took in a breath that tasted of smoke. Her lips were chapped and split open when she spoke. "Never." That word alone threw her back into a coughing fit, making her broken and fractured ribs stab pain through her body.

Haytham was looking at the wall, which was apparently much more interesting. The stern profile of his face tightened briefly in impatience, but vanished as quickly. "I don't believe we've caught your name yet. You're French, that much is obvious. Could you at least give us that?"

"No." It was becoming slightly easier to force words out, because it was hardly considered talking.

"This is useless, sir." Lee spat, and turned to her. "What do you hope to accomplish, hm? You're not being brave, or courageous. Just tell us what we want!"

"I think it's far from useless. Has she spoken yet, Charles?"

Lee grumbled. "No, sir."

"Then we've made progress." Haytham looked back to Jacqueline. She had a hard time meeting his eye. "I'll visit again tomorrow. Let's hope you've changed your mind by then. Charles?"

Lee nodded, and Haytham swept out of the cramped room. The Brute stirred a fire poker in the cauldron of red-hot coals. When he held it up, the point was a burning vermilion flecked with ash. Jacqueline felt the heat like a fire when he neared. She closed her eyes, and thought of Connor.

-o-

There was no way she could have slept that night. The way she slept was to either lean back or hunch forward, and she could no longer do either of those. All she could do was remain still and breathe as little as possible. The rats were furry and noisy as they scuttled over her bare feet and around her chair, sniffing for scraps of stale bread.

Haytham again visited, but now she refused to talk. The torture became horrendous, indescribable. Medieval. Barbaric. Slivers of wood under her nails. Steam in her face, under her chair. Needles on her fingertips and hot coals down her shirt. The burning fire poker on her arms and legs. The knives across her skin so deep as to scar and the vinegar that was then rubbed into the wounds. Even if she wanted to talk to Haytham to cut that deal—which she didn't—it was impossible for her to make any sound. Even her screaming had stopped after a while. Now she sat in her chair, and endured their pain with her mouth gaping open in a silent cry louder and more powerful than anything vocal.


	23. If and When

"_You can chain me, you can torture me, you can even destroy this body, but you will never imprison my mind." –Mahatma Ghandi _

_-o-_

Jacqueline was not a person to become angry very fast. She liked to think she was cool-headed in the face of adversary. There was even a bit of relief she felt when she was too hoarse to scream at the agony anymore, because even that felt like losing.

The same could not be said for Charles Lee. The less she talked, the more irritated he became. Pacing, spittle flying, candles flickering and voices raised became the daily routine. Jacqueline didn't spit in his face when he tried to force the information out of her. That was probably even more infuriating to him. The climax of this constant patience came on a day like any other.

"Speak, woman!" Lee looked about ready to go into cardiac arrest. His sweating face was red and twisted with anger. She didn't blame him—the tiny room got to be like an oven. "You've nothing left! _Tell us what you know!"_

The lack of response she gave was the last straw. Lee pushed aside the Brute, who was standing by the bucket of coals, and snatched the solid iron fire tool from inside. Still burning hot, he swung it hard and made contact with her leg. The shin underneath the singed skin instantly snapped. The pain, so sudden and unexpected, caused a tiny, dry whimper to exit her open mouth like bats from a tunnel.

Later that day, she heard a commotion above her. That tipped her off that she was underground, if only in a basement. There was a lot of yelling and some gunfire. Something slammed into the door of her prison that sounded suspiciously like a person. Lee was talking on the other side, but she couldn't make out any words. He was angry. _Very _angry. A few moments passed before he entered her room with a candle.

"Who did you contact?" He snarled, bowing down to be at her level.

Jacqueline shook her head weakly, her mouth gaping open and closed like a fish. Lee slapped her, but it felt like being hit with a piece of cloth compared to the rest.

"That bloody savage Assassin got in here!" He roared. "_Who did you contact_?"

When she was yet physically unable to answer, he scoffed in disgust and stormed out. The slamming of the door was especially loud this time, but she managed to sustain a flicker of hope. _Connor._

-o-

During this trying ordeal, Jacqueline often wondered why no one was coming to her rescue. It wasn't that she was being selfish, not at all. It would be nice not to wake up tied to chair for once, though. There were reasons, of course, why she was alone. She had no idea where she was being held. Maybe they thought she was dead and abandoned her. Perhaps there were too many people guarding wherever she was. The prison could be a tiny shed in the middle of nowhere, for all she knew, and they would never find her.

One day, she heard the locks of the door being opened as usual. This was not the systematic, businesslike calm of her relaxed torturers. This was frantic and pressed for time, and a couple times she heard little _pings _as lockpicks broke. It took only a couple minutes before the door was thrown open.

The person who entered was male; tall and hooded, armed and collected. "C-Connor…!" She wheezed, delusional beyond rational thought.

"No." He answered shortly. When he turned his head to speak to her, she could see his covered mouth and from where she was sitting, a quick glint of green eyes.

"You!" Jacqueline's exclamation made her double over from the effort to speak.

"Me." He took a wineskin from his belt and lightly nursed her the water inside.

"Where is Connor?" Blood dribbled from her bottom lip when she spoke, and her voice was little more than a weak cough. "Please…is he…okay?"

"Don't worry. He's safe, and currently devising some ill-fated scheme to heroically break you out, despite my warnings. It already failed the first time." The stranger took a cloth from his belt and dabbed her mouth of the pinkish spit. "You look absolutely terrible. I'm sorry it took this long, but you're being held in a high security fort. The prison was much easier to break in to. And there are several forts like this one, it took me forever to find the right one. It's been a busy couple weeks."

"Can't you…Connor knows you?"

There was a brief pause during which she could sense he was rolling his eyes. "That's a word for it, I suppose. We have a common interest. He's a little too…" The stalker shrugged a shoulder, searching for a word. "_Patriotic_. But he's foolishly determined to charge this fort with half a score of men, so I can give him credit for grand romantic gestures."

Jacqueline would have laughed if she had any humour left in her body. "Failed?"

"Yes, yesterday he single-handedly tried breaking you out. It failed, but he got away. Which is why I'm here now. Connor couldn't subterfuge his way out of a paper bag. Not the way I can." He paused to chuckle. "He doesn't exactly approve of the company I keep, but is willing to work with me for the advantages I bring in springing you from this hellhole. Right now I'm only here as a question-answerer, I guess."

"Can't you just…get me out…now?"

"Sorry, but no. A small army guards this fort. Even if I tried right now, we wouldn't get ten feet out the door. Besides, your foolish lover is intent on breaking you out himself. I wouldn't want to steal his lady."

"You are...very…" She coughed and winced at the fractured ribs stabbing agony through her insides. "Talkative."

"Right now it's my job to be talkative. The spying is only my cup of tea for so long. Sorry about all that, by the way. I needed to keep tabs on you."

Jacqueline frowned, trying to focus on his face. There was something about him…she thought she knew who he was. But it was impossible…right? "Who are you?"

He stopped wiping her face and tucked the cloth away. "A friend." Another glance over his shoulder. "I'm out of time."

Jacqueline hung her head, and when she looked up again he was gone. The locks of the door slid back into place, and once more, she was alone.

-o-

If and when she got out, she was going to eat so many oranges she got sick. Just the thought of them, juicy and bright and sweet, made her lament at her situation. She would give anything to eat another orange. It was ironic then that, thinking about food, she realised what her captors were doing. There had been no visits in quite some time. It felt like days, but after her French stranger's visit she must have gotten the time of her capture a bit jumbled. After thinking it over, she estimated it had been more like twelve hours since Connor apparently tried freeing her. Even so it was unusual, and their plan was now simple.

They were starving her out. Perhaps Lee thought it would make her talk to get another piece of maggoty bread. More likely, he came to the correct conclusion that she was not telling them anything, and they were letting her rot.

Whatever his motives, she needed to get out. A fresh wave of determination came over her, inspired by her visitor. It hurt a lot, but she clenched her teeth and started wriggling her fingers and wrists around. The ropes were tight, but her left hand was maybe giving slightly. There was a tiny bit of wiggle room. If she could just turn it to untie the knots…

Her wrist twisted a little too far and she hissed dryly in pain while she twisted it back the right way. She tried the same technique, only to get the same painful result. Her determination melted away, and she began to sob.

Jacqueline hadn't cried in a long time. The last time she remembered was when she had jumped the ship to the Colonies. But now she wept like never before. There wasn't enough moisture in her body to produce tears, but her dry, heaving sobs to the black room shook her body. If and when she got out, she wasn't going to cry at anything else, because nothing compared with this. So she wept and wept, hopeless and despairing, listening to the rats chittering about her feet.

-o-

"Don't be an idiot." The stranger scoffed. He was sitting in the manor's dining room, feet kicked up on the table—much to Connor's scorn—shining an apple on his shirt and watching Connor pacing in agitation.

"Then what do you suggest I do? Wait until she is killed?" Connor snapped back. This man's nonchalance was getting on his nerves.

"Of course not. But your brilliant plan to charge at them like a blind bull worked so well last time. You're lucky you weren't tossed into the same prison." The stranger crunched into his apple. "We need a solid plan."

Connor exhaled angrily, paced a few more lengths of the room and turned back to his ally. What other choice did he have? "What is your plan, then?"

"I understand you're a man of few words, so I'll be brief: let my people take care of her. You can go in with your lot and take out the fort, then we go in and whisk her away."

"Absolutely not."

"Why?" The guest stood. "Because you don't trust me? How shallow must you be that you would allow the woman you love to be tortured and killed for something so trivial as your _pride?_" He took another bite of apple, eyes narrowed at Connor, and sat back down. "I'm being reasonable. I ask for nothing in return because I care for Jacqueline in my own way."

"I never said I loved her…"

"Ha!" The man threw back his head and laughed. "Good one. Don't look at me like that! It's so obvious it's a little painful. Besides, she clearly cares for you too. I've never seen her act that way about anybody, so you treat that girl like the Queen."

Connor glanced away, contemplating this, when the stranger spoke again in a less joking tone. "You know, she thought you were the one coming to save her." He levelled his bright green eyes at him. "If and when she gets out of there safe, you best sweep her off her feet."

"May I ask why you're so interested in her safety?" Connor sat across from him.

The stranger shrugged and scratched at the blonde scruff on his chin. "That's really my own business, isn't it?" At his glare, the sneak sighed with exaggerated frustration. "If you really want to know, you're going to have to figure it out yourself."

The Assassin looked him up and down, thinking. "You are French."

"Observant."

"She recognised you when you were following her."

"I suppose she may have."

"You know her personally."

"That I do, my friend."

The stranger grinned mischievously, and some memory tickled in the back of Connor's mind. He remembered one day in his adolescent years, speaking with Jacqueline about their pasts. She had said something about a gang? Some gang of thieves she ran with, and their leader…

Connor sat up. "You're Georges."

Georges took another bite of apple. "The one and only. Now, I believe we were discussing a heroic rescue?"


	24. There and Back Again

"_They were kids that I once knew; now they're all dead hearts to you." –Stars, "Dead Hearts"_

_-o-_

Instead of contentedly starving to death, Jacqueline tossed around the identity of her mystery visitor. There was something about him that was vaguely familiar, but no matter how she tried, she couldn't put her finger on it. She had her suspicions, since she had glimpsed him a couple times before, but there was nothing certain. His story of Connor was amusing, and she could picture him pacing the halls of the manor on the Homestead while thinking of some way to get in and break her out without getting shot into meat.

Though now that she had a moment to think, what stake did this strange company have in her freedom? Were they going to exploit her? She couldn't really think of any other reason as to why they wanted her free.

Something had been sucked out of her during her time in her dark room. It was hard to put a name to what was missing—like an organ was missing from her gut. Perhaps it was her soul, she thought. Regardless, it truly felt like she would never laugh again.

-o-

Her forced fasting period was interrupted by more commotion over her head. Nothing was really discernable through all the stone and dirt over her head, but she distinctly heard a firing line sound off. Footsteps pounded down stairs a little closer to her. The door clicked and rattled as someone tried the locks. A voice said something, then another replied, and finally the door smashed inward.

"Her leg." The first person muttered after a beat. "It's been broken."

"Step aside." The next voice was familiar, and Jacqueline lifted her head to look.

"Connor?" She whispered. The ties around her wrists and ankles were cut. Hands under her knees and back lifted her out of the chair, gently folding her arms into her lap. Her broken bones and burned patches of skin screamed pain for her.

"Do not speak, Jacqueline." He instructed quietly. "Georges, how many people remain outside?"

"The Regulars are running scared." It was her mystery guest, resting against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "Take her outside. Your path back to your home will be secure. I have a few disgruntled friends to appease, but I suppose I will meet you at the Homestead before winter. _À toute à l'heure_."

"Farewell, my friend." Connor nodded, and Georges jogged away.

"Wait…" Jacqueline tried to see him. Connor had said a name, Georges. But it couldn't be. "Stop…"

Connor was carrying her out of the room, but not fast enough to follow Georges. Jacqueline was able to pay enough attention to her surroundings to see that the room was one of three at the end of a dim hall. A corner turned left, right, and then led up a steep stone staircase. The door at the top was open, streaming in light from the sun. After so long in the dark, it looked to her like the gates to Heaven. Each step upward felt like she was being lifted twenty feet until they emerged into the light.

Jacqueline was instantly blinded for a few minutes. She mumbled in surprised and tried to turn away from the sun. Slowly, her sight returned. With watering eyes, she looked around the fort. It was a complicated mess of small buildings and walls of spiked timber. Trees grew up right in the middle of it in places. This would not be an easy place to find, but found it they had.

Lightheadedness came over her very suddenly, and she thought she might be sick. Instead, the world tilted around, and she fell unconscious.

-o-

Night had fallen on the Homestead. Wind rustled outside a second-floor bedroom window, causing yellow and red leaves to flit past. It was open a crack at the bottom, letting in a chill autumn breeze. One orange leaf hooked on the edge of the windowsill and slipped inside the room. It drifted across the room to the bed nearby. Losing momentum, the dry leaf settled on the cheek of the woman resting there.

Jacqueline woke and looked up at the ceiling. The leaf on her cheek fell onto her pillow when she looked around. It was dark, but not the same as in the fort. The darkness was pleasant. Beside her, Connor slumped back in a chair, sound asleep. She sat up slowly, easing herself back to lean against the headboard and numerous pillows. The area between her chest and her hips hurt the most; she had no idea how many ribs were cracked, but after gingerly touching her bandage-draped abdomen, determined it must be around three or four.

Even in the dark she could feel and see her arms. Bandages were wrapped around in many places, between six and a dozen on each. What injuries lay below, she wasn't sure. When she shifted under her blankets, she distinctly felt the splint on her leg. She deflated back into her pillows, eyes half-lidded and dull.

"Jacqueline," Connor shifted next to her. "How long have you been awake?" He squeezed water out of a cloth into a bowl, folded it and placed it on her forehead.

"Maybe ten minutes." She whispered, still staring at the ceiling. Her throat hurt, but someone must have been giving her water.

"You slept for three days. How do you feel?"

Jacqueline coughed. "I feel...empty."

Connor frowned. "What do you mean?"

"It is hard to explain." She waited a moment while he let her nurse water from a cup. "Never mind."

There was a pause. Every few minutes he made a couple inhaling noises like he wanted to say something, but ultimately stayed quiet. After a while, the sun began to rise and make her bedroom glow with pink light. When it became morning, he touched her cheek, stood, and left.

The room was silent until the door opened again to let Achilles in. He hobbled to her side and helped her sit up more. "Well, it's good you're finally awake. Sit up, girl, those bandages need changing."

"Achilles, where was I being held?" Jacqueline watched him unravel the cloth on her arms.

"A fort in the frontier." He grumbled. "Look away, now."

Except she didn't want to, and stared at her arm while he pulled away the stained bandaging. Around both arms, strips and blotches of skin had been warped and burned. Some were so deep as to still be angry red. Mixed in were gashes that varied in length and depth. Achilles wiped them down with a wet cloth and wrapped them again, then pulled back the sheets and did the same with her similarly injured leg, the one that wasn't broken.

"Lord, girl." He sighed, and said nothing more.

When he unwound the wider, looser bandages around her ribs, she could see the heavy bruising all up and down her body, ranging in colour from yellow and sickly green to purple and blue. Her face probably looked just as bad, with a broken nose to boot. In fact, the wrappings felt so loose they were probably more for her aesthetic benefit than for any healing.

"Well, there's not much to do for your ribs." Achilles looked her over. "They'll have to heal on their own. The best we can do is whiskey. This would be a good time for a doctor to live nearby…and Connor's not much of a help, the way he was worrying."

Jacqueline gave a shallow, aching sigh, but something occurred to her. "I know where he can find a doctor."

Achilles stood and hobbled out. "I'll go get the boy."

A few minutes later, Connor came back into her room. "What do you need?" He sat back in his chair and leaned forward.

"There is a doctor in Boston." Jacqueline reached to pick up her cup of water, saw the black and blue of broken vessels under her nails, and quickly put her hand under the sheets again. "Ask for a man named Martin O'Callaghan."

"I will find him." Connor stood with a nod and started out.

"Wait," She raised her voice a tiny bit, but it stopped him at the door. "I want to know; do you shave with the hidden blade?"

He blinked, clearly taken by surprise, then smiled lightly and left the room, scratching his cheek.

-o-

Connor was gone for a while. During that time, Achilles helped Jacqueline around the house. A few days after she came back, they were eating breakfast in the dining room. _Eating _was a strong word, as well, for she was forced to nibble at porridge and water or juice. The mornings were starting to get colder as winter loomed. Staring out the window one pale, yellow dawn, she was reminded of her last minutes in her prison.

"I think…I think I have someone to visit." Her hand was shaking, and she had to use both just to lift the spoon to her mouth.

"That French whelp?" Achilles looked up from his newspaper. "He'll come around sooner or later."

Almost in response to the conversation, there came a quick knock on the door. "Come in!" Achilles called.

Georges poked his head in the dining room, grinning and waving a small bouquet. "Oh, you're up and about already! I brought you flowers! Get well, and all that."

Her spoon clattered back into her bowl. She wanted to stand up, but unfortunately could not. "Georges?"

He pulled out a chair across from her and sat. Achilles rolled his eyes, folded his paper and shuffled out. "I'll leave you to it."

Jacqueline reached shakily out to pick up one of her crutches. Georges moved aside, thinking her to be getting up out of her chair, but instead she weakly hit him with it. "You bastard! Why were you following me around? And why are you here? Who are your people? What do you want…?" She trailed off into a cough.

"You always were a stubborn little girl, Jacqueline." Georges smiled and leaned back. "I'll answer all your questions, but one at a time."

She paused, rubbing her swollen face. "Why are you here? The Colonies, I mean."

That got a wry smile from him, and he scratched the mop of straw-coloured hair on top of his head. "Now _that _is a very long story."

"We have time."

Georges shrugged and rolled his head, thinking. "It really starts on that day you disappeared. None of us knew where you'd gone—those of us that remained, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"Right, I suppose you wouldn't know. Réne died that day, and Léon ran away, never to be seen again." He waved his hands dramatically. "Poor kid. Smart as he was, I'm sure he's fine. Anyway, after that it was only François and I. We were still in shock, I think, because things went really far downhill for the two of us. We decided to do one big job and get a couple spaces on a ship to the Colonies, which worked out well for once.

When we got here, we still didn't know what to do. At this point we were old enough to get a job, except we weren't good at anything but stealing. So steal we did. A bunch of urchins started following us around, learning the trade, etcetera. Before I knew it, I had another little gang again. Meaning the only logical course of action was to leave the cities and build a black market trading industry in the frontier."

"_What_?"

"You heard me. That's my business; those are my people. Skilled individuals who were spat out by the "_new life" _the Colonies offered." He put exaggerated air quotes around the two sarcastic words. "Loyal as dogs, smarter than most, and the best damn thieves I've ever seen. Actually, François is probably back there right now."

"Really?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Huh." Jacqueline took a moment to think about the flood of information. "So, why were you following me?"

"Convenience. I needed to keep tabs on your actions, since you and Connor are starting to become infamous enough that I thought something might happen. _Voila._ He gestured at her current state. "But also curiosity. Once I found out you were here, I couldn't help but want to see how you were doing."

"Why not just confront me?"

"Oh, you know me. Never one to take the easy way. Keeping an aura of mystery and such."

Jacqueline scoffed as best she could with her wrecked throat. "How did you know I was here? In the Colonies?"

Georges levelled a deadpan stare at her. "Jacqueline. Really. This is me you're talking to."

"Oh, I almost forgot you were the Lord and Savior come down to earth. Forgive me." She mock bowed, but knew he was right. Even when they were kids, Georges had a way of knowing things that bordered on the supernatural.

Her friend laughed. "I'm sorry about all that following you around. If it makes you feel any better, I never went into inns or the _Aquila_. You and Connor deserved _some_ privacy."

She didn't even have the energy to blush. "I think you assume too much. We…"

"If you say anything along the lines of "we're not together", I'm going to jump out the second floor window. There is nothing more frustrating than two people who deny they have feelings for each other. You didn't see the way that poor bastard was worrying after you. If that's not love, then I don't know what is. Where is he, by the way? He didn't leave your side for three straight days."

"Connor went to Boston to get a doctor. There isn't one currently on the Homestead."

"I see. How are you feeling?"

"Bad, but not in a physical way. I feel…edgy." He raised an eyebrow, so she continued. "When I woke, I could not explain it. But now I feel as though…as though I am yet in danger. I have not slept well."

"Hmm." He rubbed his chin. "Have you tried drinking?"

"Like a fish in water, but there is still this…" Jacqueline ran her tongue over the backs of her teeth. "_Paranoia _that I feel deep inside my bones. I've never felt so frightened as I do so often now that it has become unusual to not be. And sometimes…"

When she didn't go on, Georges leaned forward slightly. "Sometimes?"

"I…well, never mind. It's just my mind playing tricks on me." Something else occurred to her. "Why did you leave me those clues?"

Georges frowned. "Clues?"

"On my ride with Paul Revere, when I saw you for the first time. When I went to investigate, there was a fish and an apple. I thought you were trying to tell me your identity."

Georges was clearly trying to remember what she was talking about. Then he suddenly burst out laughing. "Clues? That was my dinner!"

Jacqueline stared. "You're joking."

"No, no!" Georges wiped his eyes. "See, I thought I had more time. So I got myself some food, but you saw me and I had to leave it."

She eased back in her chair, exasperated. "Do you know how long I spent agonising over those items? Hours, Georges. Hours."

"That wasn't my fault, but I can see why you would think that."

The door opened, letting in a wave of arctic air and a few stray leaves from the lingering autumn. Connor appeared in the door. "_Salut, _Connor." Jacqueline forced an aching smile. "Georges came to visit."

Connor passed the other man a barbed glance, which likely held some male telekinetic message, for Georges chuckled. "Don't worry, my friend. Even if you did not already have an obvious claim on her, she's…well, she's not my type."

It took Jacqueline a few seconds to decipher his tone of voice. "Weren't you with Réne?"

"Please, Jacqueline, we were children. Let's just say François and I grew rather _close _during our time on our own."

"Oh!" She looked up to Connor, who seemed equally surprised. "Ahem…how is Martin?"

Connor took a seat next to her. "He was happy to hear from you, but was experiencing financial trouble related to taxes. I invited him to live on the Homestead, and he accepted."

"I'll leave you two alone." Georges stood, pulling his hood up. Tugging his mask up over his nose, he added, "My company is stationed several miles off the Homestead. Come visit any time."

"_Merci, _Georges." Jacqueline nodded.

"And I suggest you talk about those sleeping troubles with Connor." He winked an emerald eye at them, and left as quickly as he appeared.

Connor quirked his head at her. "You are having trouble sleeping? Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were in Boston, remember?" At his continued concerned frown, she set her hand over his. "It's probably nothing. I promise."

-o-

_-This chapter is longer than the others, and is the beginning of her recovery from the events of the last couple. She won't be well enough to go with Connor during his mission to the church where he meets his father, but he will leave for that soon._

_-There's been a lack of Connor/Jac so far, seeing as neither has had much of a chance. But Georges is lovely and fun to write, and I hope I've answered most questions with this chapter. Expect ConJac soon._

_-__**Review **__for apples and fish! _


	25. Phantasms

"_In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? It should bloody well show." –Janet Fitch, _White Oleander

_-o-_

The ceiling of her room was very boring, Jacqueline realised, as most ceilings were. Now that she had no real option but to stare at it, she noticed it was boring. It was slanted up, a plain canvas of wood planks and old nails. She pushed the blankets away from her legs and sat on the edge of the mattress. The night was dark and the hooting of owls echoed through the air. It had been three weeks since her return to the manor, and though she was physically feeling better, an illness plagued her body and mind. Sleeping was hard to come by, and when by chance she managed to find rest, it didn't last more than a couple hours.

With a light sigh, she reached to her bedside to light a candle. The moment she struck the flint and the wick caught fire, her bedroom vanished. She was back in that dark room, staring at the illuminated face of Lee and watching him light that candle again and again, knowing the pain was soon to come after the lighting of that single candle and the gold light it cast on her torture instruments. Again and again that candle lit, casting shadows on ghoulish faces.

Jacqueline flung it across the room, breathing heavily and painfully, and the vision vanished. Her heart was palpitating in her chest, and she placed a shaky hand on her sternum. Wax was spattered in a thin trail to where the candle now lay on the floor. Bisou, who had been asleep at the end of her bed, jumped off with a concerned bark.

Picking up her crutches, Jacqueline limped over to the candle and picked up the brass holder. While observing it, someone knocked on the outside door. There were three to her room—one door to the main room and fireplace, and two on either side of the hearth: one that led to her actual bedroom and another to her bathroom.

"Ah!" She jumped a bit too violently than normal, sending a lance of pain up her leg. "Ngh…who is it?"

"I heard a noise. Are you well?" Connor. Jacqueline painstakingly made her way to the door and peered out.

"Yes, just…" She sighed again. "No."

"Tell me what troubles you." Connor's insistent voice made her wince; it sounded like his father's, even though it was several measures kinder.

She glanced up at him. Even more than usual she felt vulnerable, and not only because of her questionable physical and mental states. It being sometime around midnight, she was in her nightgown and had her hair down loose, and both of those made her uneasy. But she let him in, perhaps against her better judgment.

Connor made to start a fire, but she stopped him considering her reaction to her candle. "Don't do that."

He gave her a look, but stood. "Very well."

Facing her, she could see scars of various shapes and sizes across his chest. Of course, the thought that came immediately after was that he was shirtless, and she quickly stopped staring. "I am being haunted." She eased herself down into a soft chair, and he sat on the floor.

"Haunted? By what?" Even without his gloves on, he was doing that thing with his hands.

"Memories. I tried lighting a candle, and…suddenly I was back there, in that room…"

"Even the strongest can be pursued by visions." Connor interjected. "You are safe now."

"I know, but yet I am…on edge."

"Such apparitions cannot harm you. They are not real, and you know this."

"Exactly, and I know I'm being foolish, too, but…" Jacqueline held her forehead in her hand. She considered telling him about his father's presence during a portion of her capture, but refrained. The corners of her mouth twitched into a half smile. "Well, maybe when I don't have so many broken bones you can help me sleep."

It went right over his head. She could almost see the words float through the air and soar out the window, for he only frowned slightly. "But you would be well and no longer have trouble sleeping."

"Oh my goodness." She chuckled. "I don't have to explain that, do I?" At the longer-than-appropriate pause, she rolled her eyes. "Ratonhnhaké:ton, I mean _help me sleep."_

"Oh…oh!" His eyebrows shot up, and even in the dark she could see the blood rushing to his cheeks.

Jacqueline cackled. Bisou, excited by the action, bounced in a circle and jumped on Connor, licking his face. He spluttered and fell back in defeat, which only made her laugh harder. Before she knew it she had joined him on the rug, and her dog hopped back and forth between them, barking and wagging her tail until Jacqueline batted her away. It had been a long time since she had laughed like that.

-o-

When morning came, Jacqueline was warmer than she would have been in her bed. Her back and neck ached due to her having fallen asleep on the floor, nestled against Connor. It was good she was lying on her back, for her ribs were still in a delicate state. Bisou had taken the armchair as a bed. They must have all passed out the night before.

She grunted trying to sit up and eased herself back down onto her impromptu pillow, Connor's arm. Her hunting dog snuffled drowsily and jumped off the chair to lick her face. The hound was smart enough to learn where she was hurt quickly, and avoided broken bones and burns. A bird started chirping outside the window. Winter had come, but sparrows and finches still flocked en masse.

Now getting restless, she made another attempt at getting free. Connor exhaled deeply and pressed his face against her shoulder. She rolled her eyes, stifling a chuckle. Still the same—he slept like no other. Finally getting back to her feet, she turned and looked back down on them. Connor slept curled up like a child, with one hand out. Reaching for something that wasn't there.

It was still early, slightly before dawn, and she hadn't gotten nearly as much sleep as she wanted. Hobbling with her splinted leg gingerly helping her along without her crutches, she took the fur that she kept in the room and draped it over Connor.

Smiling lightly, she sat back in her chair, content to sleep there for any extra hours. Before long she dropped back into an uneasy sleep.

-o-

Waking for the second time that day, she was alone. The fur was tucked around her. It must have been late afternoon. The window was white, and it was clear the first blizzard of the season was ravaging the Homestead. Something was very wrong. The atmosphere of the house was tense. Sensing trouble, Jacqueline hopped on her one foot to her crutches and walk out into the hall.

Raised voices trickled up from the kitchen area of the house—Connor and Achilles were arguing again. Ever since she returned, she'd noticed an increased hostility between the student and mentor, which she refused to take part in. When they started yelling, she retreated to her room hoping she hadn't caused any of it, which was futile because she knew Connor's stubbornness and her condition were only two of many factors.

Tension in the house had increased, she assumed, for a few main reasons. The foremost being, Connor wanted to tell people such as Adams and Washington their true identities as Assassins or Templars, a plan that Achilles strongly disagreed with. Lesser was the finger-pointing that came with her kidnapping, and though when she first heard this come up she tried to tell them that it was no one's fault, they weren't having it.

Things felt different on this particular day, however. Jacqueline hobbled down the stairs in time to see Connor storm past her toward the door. Achilles was waiting there, and threw out his cane to stop him. "Just stop right there!" He demanded. Connor paid no heed, and marched past, nearly smoking with anger.

"Step aside, Achilles!" The younger man snapped back, smacking aside the cane and throwing open the front door.

"Don't do this, Connor!" Achilles stumbled out the door after him into the raging snowstorm. Jacqueline hurried after them, metres behind after at last getting back down the stairs.

"Then what would you propose we do? Sit and watch while the Templars take control?" Connor asked, turning back for just long enough to say his piece. "We are sworn to stop them. Or have you forgotten?"

"Assassins are meant to be quiet. Precise. We do not go announcing conspiracies from the rooftops to all who pass by!"

"What are you going on about?" Jacqueline navigated out the door.

"The boy's finally decided that he should inform our _allies _of our Assassin nature." Achilles told her crossly.

"Who are you to lecture anyone?" Connor whirled on his mentor. "You locked yourself away in this crumbling heap and gave up on the Brotherhood entirely. Since the day I arrived you've done nothing but discourage me, and on the rare occasions you've chosen to help, you've done so little you may as well have done nothing at all!"

"Connor!" Jacqueline gasped.

"How dare you!" Achilles exclaimed.

"Then tell me: on whose watch did the Brotherhood falter? Whose inaction allowed the Templar order to grow so large that it now controls an entire nation?" Connor tied his bedroll to the back of the saddle.

"If I sought to dissuade you, it was because you knew nothing. If I seemed reluctant to contribute, it was because you were naïve. A thousand times you would have died and taken God knows how many with you. Let me tell you something, Connor—life is not a fairy tale, and there are no happy endings!"

"No," Connor agreed coldly. He swung himself up into the saddle. "Not when men like you are left in charge."

Achilles lowered his voice dangerously. "In your haste to save the world, boy, take care you don't destroy it."

Jacqueline reached up and put her hand on his horse's neck. "Don't, Connor. Think about this."

"I have thought about it." He paused for only a fraction of a second at the sight of her, pathetic and recovering, before urging his horse on and vanishing into the whiteout.

Once he was gone, Achilles made a noise of frustration; the noise one makes when one has had to deal with too much. "That boy's going to damn us all!" He aggressively limped back into the house. "Get in here, girl, or you'll catch cold on top of all your godforsaken injuries."

Jacqueline watched the road in shock before numbly following him. For once, she wanted to agree with Achilles. Connor was going to damn them all.

Her mentor was hurling logs into the crackling fire, grumbling to himself. "…arrogant fool thinks himself so important, that he can just go marching through the streets blabbing about Assassins and Templars and such, foolish boy, must not have taught them well enough…"

Jacqueline watched him sadly a moment before cautiously approaching, as one would an angry lion. "Achilles…don't blame Connor. He only does what he thinks is best."

"Well, that's the _problem, _isn't it?" He glared at her over his hunched shoulder. "Always doing what he _thinks _is best, but not what _is_." The cane struck the ground on the last word to make a point.

"We are arrogant youths, Achilles. Just like you always say." She sat down in a chair by the fire. "How much harm could it do?"

"You've no idea the power that our Order once used to hold. If word were to reach other Templars that we still existed, we'd be hunted like animals." He stabbed at the popping logs with his cane. "The boy's foolish desire to see justice done is going to get us killed. He'll be the end of us all."

-o-

_-I'm sorry but at the current moment the closest I can get to ConJac is cuddling, apparently, but once she gets better in all respects things should get good. Wink wink nudge nudge giggle yep _

_-So I'm thinking of writing a sort of spin-off for Tyranny of King Washington, and Jacqueline's role in that universe. Would anyone read it? I'm a little on the fence. _

_-I'm glad you guys like Georges! I like him too. _

_-__**Review **__for cuddling! _


	26. Family Reunion

_(AGH! Okay, I accidentally put up the wrong chapter because it was really late and I was running on fumes. So sorry! This is the right one!)_

"_I didn't fall in love. I rose in it, I saw you and I made up my mind." –Toni Morrison _

_-o-_

The first stage of their journey was mostly in the frontier, travelling by horseback across the frozen countryside. They were expected in New York in a few days, and so set out early to make it to the city a day ahead of schedule. Due to the unfortunate weather and quick winter days, it took them almost twice as long to traverse the wilderness. Camp for the first night was made under the thick branches of a pine, so that they wouldn't have to clear away any snow. The tree sheltered them from much of the wind and snow, and smelled fresh. The needles were a bit annoying, however.

Jacqueline threw Blanche's saddle blanket down before sitting. Connor sat underneath and crossed his legs. Once they were settled and had a small flame simmering that could barely be called a fire, Jacqueline started the questions. "Who is left after Church?"

"Charles Lee." Connor said determinedly. "And my father." After apparently thinking about it, he asked, "Why do you wish to see him?"

"Your father?"

"Yes."

"Why do you think?" She exhaled into her hands.

"I think you want revenge on him."

"Then you would think wrong." Her fingers rubbed her stiff knee. "I don't want revenge. I want him to feel regret."

"You think him incapable of it?"

"No, I…think he should face the consequences of his actions. I want him to see that things have long-term effects that he can't escape. I don't want revenge. Are you defending him?"

"Of course not." He replied a little too sharply. "I want to see every angle of this debate."

A beat passed, a pause of rustling wind and the smell of sap. "Can I ask you something?" Jacqueline continued at his silence. "A long time ago, I asked you if you would be able to kill your father. You said you had to. If I asked you that now, would that answer be the same?"

Connor looked down to his hands. "I would…prefer not to kill him, if there is any way it can be avoided."

"How do you think it can be avoided?"

"Perhaps I can convince him to resign from his Order." He made a shrugging motion, like there was something on his shoulder he wanted to move without touching. "I will think of something."

Jacqueline watched him. "If you're in danger of him, and you can't do it, know that I will."

"If it comes to that, I must be the one to kill him." His stare left no room for argument.

Jacqueline nodded and pulled her knees up to her chest. She exhaled, leaving a small cloud in front of her face. Some kind of bird chirruped over their heads in the tree they were taking shelter under. She scooted up to Connor and leaned into him. He secured an arm around her shoulders.

"You're very warm." She whispered.

He made a little noise. "Hm. You are very cold."

Jacqueline laughed quietly. Their voices were muffled in the claustrophobic, snowy environment. "You need to work on your wooing."

Connor looked down at her to retort, putting their faces breaths apart. It was like a magnetic pull. Jacqueline stretched up and pressed her lips to his. It was no passionate entanglement—she moved up so she was perched on his leg, and he hesitantly moved the arm from her shoulders to around her waist. There was an almost casual way they held each other, like it was just another part of the day and it would be silly not to.

When they broke apart, Jacqueline breathed, "I think practise makes perfect, don't you?"

He blinked. His pupils were dilated far out to leave a narrow ring of brown iris. "Was…that a compliment?"

"Something like that." She leaned into the warm bubble of air in his hood to feather her lips down his jaw. Connor made a noise she could only describe as endearing, a little surprised intake of breath. "You never answered my question."

He stuttered and cleared his throat, a part of his body she'd already reached. "Which question?"

"Do you really shave with the hidden blade?" Her fingers touched the cheek opposite the side of his neck her lips were on. He didn't respond for a few moments, and she paused. "Ratonhnhaké:ton?"

Connor took a deep breath. "You are being distracting."

"I should think if a woman was ever sent to get information from you, Connor, you would fail miserably." Jacqueline chuckled and drew back. "So answer."

He seemed to consider it, giving his head a little roll. "Yes, sometimes."

"I knew it." She leaned against him, and he awkwardly held her. It was much warmer when they were close. After a while, she felt him relax and fall asleep. Jacqueline's sleeping schedule was confused and erratic. She was afraid to close her eyes, because most of the time when she did, it was a long time before the flashbacks of pain and flickering candles faded.

-o-

Jacqueline never actually slept, but rather entered some kind of hibernation where she half-dozed. When Connor woke, he seemed surprised to see that she was awake.

"Did you sleep?" He asked.

She stood and brushed off her bum, sprinkling pine needles everywhere. "A little. You're very comforting to sleep with."

Connor, who had been saddling his horse, looked up at her with raised eyebrows. Jacqueline realised her phrasing and gave a small giggle, though didn't correct herself. He flushed back at her and ducked behind his horse to strap the saddle together under its belly.

They were behind schedule, and only arrived in New York on the very evening they were supposed to meet Haytham. The night was blue in the city, casting navy shadows from the flickering orange street lamps. It was cold; the kind of freezing cold that made everything seem to be much sharper and more defined than normal.

Their meeting place was to be a market, which at this time of night was abandoned. The stalls were covered, left of their vendors and goods. Tarps fluttered in the arctic breeze. A stray dog sniffed through the empty square, looking for scraps of food left behind. Connor made his way toward a bench at the edge of the stalls and sat, looking around warily. Jacqueline paced, unable to sit. She wandered too close to the dog, and it growled. She pushed it away with her foot and continued pacing.

"Good evening, Connor." Haytham greeted, and they both turned to see him emerge from the shadows of a nearby alley. "You made it here in one piece, then."

"Recovered from your beating, I see?" Connor alluded to some event Jacqueline was not present for, getting a cold reception from his father.

The older man's gaze turned to Jacqueline. "Good evening. You made it out alive, then."

Jacqueline grit her teeth. "Yes, I am sure you are overjoyed."

He regarded her a moment. "I did not like the idea of killing you, but with your lack of cooperation, we couldn't very well—"

"Let me live? No, I suppose disposing of the rubbish was much easier than that." She tried stalking toward him, but was limping and blocked anyway by Connor.

"No revenge." His voice held serious warning. Jacqueline waited until she stopped seeing red and backed down.

"You're certainly on a tight leash." Haytham commented, sounding amused.

"Trust me, if I really wanted to kill you, I could." Jacqueline turned away and folded her arms, content to wait until they finished planning.

There was a pause. Haytham put his arms behind his back and folded his hands. "Benjamin Church is holed up in an abandoned brewery on the waterfront. We should be done with this by sunrise."

"Good." Connor replied strongly. "I would like to have those supplies returned as soon as possible."

"Of course. I wouldn't want to keep you from your lost cause."

The atmosphere was so cold Jacqueline was almost shivering. Haytham jogged off, surprisingly sprightly for his age, and they were forced to follow. He magnetised to the rooftops, the two young Assassins in tow like a train of killers. Jacqueline was the last one, and in a bad state. She was exhausted from trying to keep up with them, her leg hurt and she had not gotten any real sleep in several days.

Leaping down from a rooftop to balance on a pair of ropes bound tight over the street, they ran across and climbed up onto the slanted roof of a church. Haytham stopped there and waited for them to catch up. When Connor ran up to stand beside him, he asked, "Tell me something—you could have killed me when we first met. What stayed your hand?"

"Curiosity." Haytham answered after a pause. "Any other questions?"

Jacqueline dragged herself to the top of the church and nearly collapsed. Connor took her by the arm and let her lean against the curved dome at the cross of the building to rub her sore knee. "What do the Templars truly seek?" He asked.

"Order. Purpose. Direction. It's your lot that means to confound with this nonsense talk of freedom. Time was, the Assassins possessed a far more sensible goal, that of freedom."

"Freedom _is _peace!" Connor declared, as though outraged his father could think any differently.

Haytham shook his head at the arrogance of youth. "Oh, no. It's an invitation to chaos. Only look at this little revolution your friends have started. I have stood before the Continental Congress and listened to them stamp and shout. All in the name of liberty. But it is just noise."

"And _this _is why you favour Lee?" Connor asked incredulously.

"He understands the needs of this would-be nation far better than the jobbernowls who profess to represent it."

"It seems your tongue has tasted sour grapes—the people have made their choice, and it was Washington."

Haytham bowed his head, like he was trying not to laugh. "The people chose nothing. It was done by a group of privileged cowards looking to enrich themselves. They convened in private and made a decision that would benefit _them. _Oh, they might have dressed it up with pretty words, but that does not make it true. The only difference, children, the _only _difference between myself and those you aid is that I do not feign affection."

The conversation was clearly over. Haytham ran smartly off, the stinging words of his speech still ringing in the air like a swarm of bees. Jacqueline stood up straight as she and Connor watched his retreat for a moment.

"I would like to see you two argue when we're not on a time schedule." She decided.

Connor did not respond, only slid down the other side of the church to follow his father. Jacqueline groaned at the thought of more climbing, but climb they did. Climb, jump and generally pounce their way across the city. There was some fumbling and tripping, and a strong competitive air emanated from the two men in front of her. For Jacqueline, she was just trying to keep from falling. But for them, it was an arms race. It was father and son competing to be the better. It was years of neglected relationship come to fruition.

Finally, Haytham dropped down between two buildings into a narrow alley. He walked forward and peered around the corner. Before them was a long brick wall guarded by a dozen soldiers.

"What is it?" Connor asked at his father's hesitation.

"I was hoping I could wave you past the guards, but he's replaced most of them with men I don't know. Hmm. Well, _I_ should be able to pass without suspicion, but you two…" He shrugged and started off as though to leave him.

Connor grabbed his arm. "No. We do this together or not at all."

"What do you have in mind?" Jacqueline fell against a wall and massaged her middle. "There's certainly no way to sneak in."

"I will find guards who are off duty and take two uniforms." He said.

"Very well." Haytham sat down against the wall opposite, not seeing the obvious flaw in Connor's plan. "I will wait here, then."

"Of course you will." Connor grumbled.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like me to come along and hold your hand, perhaps? Provide kind words of encouragement?"

Connor waved a hand in irritation and stalked off. Jacqueline sighed and rubbed her leg. She looked up and caught Haytham's proudly inquisitional stare. "What?" She snapped. "It hasn't healed yet, thanks to you."

"As I recall, I wasn't the one who did that."

"Oh, I forgot." Jacqueline made it sound sarcastic, but parts of her bondage had genuinely slipped her memory. "It was your lapdog, Lee. I think when I find him, I'll break his legs before Connor kills him."

Haytham regarded her coldly. "For someone who advocates peace, you're rather violent."

"For someone who advocates order, your methods are rather chaotic." She countered sourly.

He watched her for a moment, clearly judging. Then he exhaled once lightly out his nose, his mouth shifting into a smirk. "You remind me of Connor's mother."

That took her by surprise. Jacqueline frowned. "Don't mention her around Ratonhnhaké:ton." She muttered darkly, and went back to working her fingers against the sides of her stocking-encased calf. The thin fabric bunched and stretched around her fingers.

Haytham's brow furrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

Jacqueline paused and let that sink in, realisation dawning slowly. A cruel smile spread over her face. "You don't know."

He bristled. "Explain yourself, woman."

"Never. I want to see the look on your face when he tells you." She knew it was cold, but if there was any kind of God, this was his way of exacting revenge. And Jacqueline wanted to twist this knife in his side for all it was worth.

-o-

_-__**Review **__for sassiness! _


	27. When in Rome

"_Fathers represent another way of looking at life—the possibility of an alternative dialogue." -Louise J. Kaplan_

_-o-_

Connor came back with his arms full of clothes. He began handing Jacqueline various garments, picked carefully from the tangled ball he hefted. She took them, but had to point out the problem with this plan of his. "You realise this may not work, right?"

He gave her an inquisitive look. "Why not?" Jacqueline shot him a deadpan stare and pointed at her breasts.

While he was busy being embarrassed, Haytham stepped in. The old Templar was still sitting against the wall. "Just wear a hat and don't tie your clothes too tightly. Hide your hair and you should be fine. The boyish figure you have should help."

Jacqueline flushed angrily and stalked away, back into the alley where she could change. There were myriad straps and buttons on her outfit that had her struggling for a while to undress while so agitated. Eventually she pulled on the uniform. It was a little loose, but it did make her look like a boy. She put her hat on and walked back toward the other two.

"Go, Connor." She ordered huffily. He looked between her and his father, wary of rising tension, but stood and left.

He was back faster than her, tugging uncomfortably at the lapels of his jacket. He looked up at Jacqueline. "Your hair." He noted. When she floundered to tuck it away, he gently took the braid and tucked it down the back of her jacket. Then, her hair looked much shorter and male.

"Now you could pass for a young man with even more ease than before." Haytham was just mocking her for the sake of it now.

"Arse." She muttered, flipping the Queen of Hearts normally kept in her stocking and tapped it into the brim of her hat. Still behind her, Connor's fingers brushed the nape of her neck in what he probably wanted to be comforting, but just made her shiver and press her lips together. He stepped out from behind her and came face to face with Haytham.

Haytham straightened his son's jacket, tugging at it in a way that was undeniably paternal. "This should suffice. Follow me."

The guards near the door stood at attention when they got near, weapons bristling. The one at the actual door held out his hand. "Hold, strangers! You tread on private property. What business have you here?"

"The Father of Understanding guides us." Haytham answered simply.

"You I recognise." The guard said after a beat. "Not the savage and the boy."

Haytham held a hand toward Jacqueline. "My errand boy." Everyone present received a shock when he gestured to Connor. "And he is my son."

The guard looked amused at this last statement. "Tasted of the forest's fruits, did you?" He chuckled. Connor and Jacqueline exchanged a look behind Haytham's back. "Off you go, then."

The door opened to a courtyard of worn grass and broken wood planks. Some guards patrolled there. Jacqueline kept her head low, feeling the eyes on her. It was good that she looked convincingly boyish, but nonetheless she felt edgy being surrounded. Haytham led them to a side door, which in turn opened to a hall lines with large barrels of alcohol or wine. It turned only once, a sharp right angle that stopped abruptly at a locked, unguarded door.

"It's locked. Give me a moment." Haytham crouched with a lockpick and torque wrench.

Connor leaned against the wall, and Jacqueline near him. "Must be strange for you, discovering my existence as you have."

His father glanced up at him, briefly away from the softly clicking locks. "I'm actually curious to know what your mother might have said about me. I always wondered what life might have been like…if she and I had stayed together. How is she, by the way?"

"Dead. Murdered."

Connor dropped it on them so suddenly it felt like a gunshot. Haytham looked genuinely shocked for a moment, and even Jacqueline was reeling at the reveal, though in a different way—she didn't tear her eyes from Haytham's expression, relishing the emotional blow a bit too much to be healthy.

"What?" Haytham lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh, you're _sorry_?" Connor was angry now. Jacqueline rarely saw him so; he could be irritated or impatient, but this could only be summarised as _angry. _"I found my mother burning alive. I'll never forget her face as she sent me away. Charles Lee is responsible for her death by your order. And you're sorry?"

During this speech, Haytham glanced sideways at Jacqueline, as if to say, "You knew." Her smirk had gone, but the sick satisfaction remained.

"That's impossible." He addressed to the younger man. "I gave no such order. I spoke the opposite, in fact—I told them to give up the search for the Precursor Site! We were to focus on more practical pursuits…!"

"It is done," Connor shoved his father aside to get to the door. "And I am all out of forgiveness."

Haytham stood, stunned, as Jacqueline also moved past into the room. He joined them a moment later in the larger room. A paunch, white-wigged man stood a few metres away, with his back to them.

"Benjamin Church," Haytham adjusted his cloak, having regained his composure. "You stand accused of betraying the Templar Order and abandoning our principles in pursuit of personal gain. In consideration of your crime, I hereby sentence you to death."

The man turned—he was not Church. Before they could react, he roared, "_Now!"_

Men swarmed in from behind barrels and wooden support columns, bearing bayonets. The fake Church aimed a pistol at the bristling trio he had surrounded. "You're too late. Church and the cargo are long gone. And I'm afraid you won't be in any condition to follow…"

The ensuing fight was cramped and dark, mildly painful for Jacqueline and overall annoying. The faux Church taunted them from a distance while blades glinted and blood flashed scarlet in the moonlight that shone down in pale rectangles from the high up windows. It had become second nature for Jacqueline to drop to the floor when she heard the latching of rifle triggers, but she lingered a tad too long and cut it close, her commandeered hat spinning off into a dark corner with a new hole.

She nocked an arrow as the fight wound down and shot it into the back of the last man standing. He yelled out and flopped face down. Connor stalked over to the fake Church, who in the chaos had gotten knocked on the back of the head and was groaning in the dirt.

Connor slapped his hand onto his back. "Where is Church?"

"I'll tell you. Anything you want!" He begged. "Only promise me you'll let me live!"

Haytham gave an agreeing nod. Connor tugged the man to his feet. "You have my word."

The man seemed infinitely relieved. "He left yesterday for Martinique. Took passage on a trading sloop called the _Welcome._ Loaded half its hold with the supplies he stole from the Patriots. That's all I know, I swear—agh!" He cried out as Haytham jammed a knife between his ribs. "You promised…" And he crumpled to the ground.

"And _he _kept his word." Connor gestured to the man's body.

Haytham wiped the knife off on his sleeve. "Let's go."

"Get down!" Jacqueline had been keeping an eye out during their discussion, and spotted a small firing line, three men with aimed rifles. She grabbed Connor's hand and pulled him down with her. Seconds later, barrels of gunpowder across the warehouse erupted into a might explosion, shaking the floor and sending a ball of fire roaring over their heads.

They stood up shakily, stumbling to and fro. The timbers of the entire structure were coming down—the second floor had collapsed completely in some places. Haytham ran off immediately, hopping up onto the next floor and dashing away into the growing flames. Connor paused to take a breath, hands on his knees, but Jacqueline pulled him along.

"_Allons-y, _Connor, or we'll suffocate!" She urged, and he sprinted on.

Then ensued a desperate race to get to fresh air. The warehouse had become a complicated mess of flaming wood and semi-exploding remnants of gunpowder. Jacqueline had enough adrenaline in her body to keep her going, following Connor's path through the upper beams of the building. Balancing and running across the criss-crossed beams, a piece of ashen wood crumbled away from her foot. She launched herself far enough forward to get to the adjacent beam, but was left hanging, ribs now burning from the strain.

"Connor!" She exclaimed, struggling to climb up. He stopped and looked back. Alarmed, he bobbed back across the beams to pull her up.

"Be careful." He advised.

"Sorry, I was too busy trying not to burn to death to focus on not falling to my doom." She called ahead to him.

He reached wherever Haytham had stopped before her, climbing up a steep wall of fallen flooring. She ran a few stiff steps up the wall and grabbed his outstretched hand. Haytham, it seemed, had been cornered by two remaining soldiers. Soldiers who went crashing to their deaths when the floor underneath them caved in with a burst of sparks and splinters of wood. Haytham had also fallen, but was hanging on the edge. Connor pulled him back onto "solid" ground.

The older man moved over to the loft door. He tugged at it, but a heavy wood beam rested over the door—the only solution was force. Jacqueline lifted her leg and tried bashing it in. "Stuck! See if you can find something to pry it open." Haytham called back to Connor. There was no response. "Connor? What are you up to?"

The two at the door turned and saw Connor taking a few steps back. Jacqueline knew what was coming next and didn't bother arguing. She waited while Haytham tried to reason. "Oh, no. Don't do that. There's no way of knowing what's on the other siiiide!"

Connor charged and smashed the loft door in, taking both companions with him. They went flailing and tumbling out into open air. Jacqueline was utterly confused and disoriented until they struck water with a great splash. Bubbles gurgled from her mouth in surprise, and she floundered to the surface.

Connor surfaced with a gasp beside her. "We do now." He told his father, who glowered.

They swam up to the nearest part of the wharf. Jacqueline heaved herself up and wrung out her hair. With a grin, she also wrung out Connor's ponytail. The water made him shake out like a dog. "Church has at least a day on us…we'll need to move quickly if we're to catch him."

"We have a ship we can use." Connor gestured between himself and Jacqueline. "Meet me on the pier when you're ready."

The latter immediately brightened as they walked away from Haytham. She was boiling over with eagerness to be back on the _Aquila. _"Let's hurry back to the Homestead to fetch the _Aquila_." She said, tugging his arm like it would make a difference.

"I want my robes back." He said, getting a laugh from her.

"_Oui, _I think I do too. These clothes are so uncomfortable!" She tugged at the itchy stitches. "Ack! I'm never wearing men's clothes again."

Dawn came up slowly as they made their way back to where they had stashed their robes. Jacqueline's stomach grumbled in protest by the time they reached the tight alley corner. She pinched her mouth together and removed her clothing from under the stone it was stored.

"I didn't expect you to tell your father about…about your mother, the way you did." She admitted, pulling off her damp, too-big jacket.

"He had the right to know." Connor replied coldly. "Even though he is responsible."

Jacqueline sighed and leaned against the wall, the fatigue from earlier catching up to her. "You told _me _not to get revenge. Wasn't that—I mean to say, it was a bit hypocritical."

He glared sideways at her. "It was vengeance enough for both of us."

"Was it?" She narrowed her eyes. "Did you forget you have to kill him?"

They had been stepping closer to each other, the atmosphere sizzling with tension. "I did not forget. Unlike you, I'm trying to find a way out without needless killing."

"It's hardly needless!" She pointed at him accusingly. "You _have _forgotten his place in the Templar Order."

Jacqueline stopped when their chests touched. She reminded herself that Connor was capable of overpowering her, and it would be best not to be on his bad side, though she knew he would never hurt her. Instead, she sighed again and rested her forehead on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her middle and put his chin on the top of her head.

"Things are going to get bad, aren't they?" She whispered.

She looked up at him when he didn't respond. The answer was written on his face. Jacqueline exhaled tiredly. "Time to go."

-o-

Jacqueline sprinted down the hill toward the Homstead's small wharf. There wasn't much that made her distinctly happy anymore, but the _Aquila _was right up there on the list along with Connor, Bisou, and oranges. The day was chilly, but with a bright scent of spring frost and blooming bloodroot flowers. Most of the sailors lived on the Homestead in small houses near the wharf. She made a beeline for Faulkner's ramshackle hut, came to a nearly skidding halt in front and knocked.

He opened the door with the regular smell of whiskey coming with. "Ahoy, lass. What brings ya down here?" He stepped aside. "Come in an' have a drink."

She walked in and he brought out another glass, filling it halfway with strong amber liquid. "Now, if yer here t' go on some fool's errand, I ain't feelin' quite in the mood fer goin' out on the sea." He started.

"Not exactly. Would warm weather change your mind?" Jacqueline threw back the drink and leaned forward to set the glass on the table. "I have a favour to ask."

Faulkner nodded, grinning past his beard. "Aye, I reckon that might suggest a change in the winds."

-o-

_-Yes, it's a sailing chapter coming up! Which means the Caribbean and Thomas the Lookout! :D _

_-Of course I'm going to be keeping the tension up (I hope), since things aren't exactly _serious_ between Connor and Jacquie yet. Yet. ;) _


	28. Our Separate Ways

"_It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you __do__ want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!" -Mark Twain_

_-o-_

The route to Martinique was indeed much warmer than the New York area. The shores were high, rocky cliffs of white stone topped with small jungles of bright green foliage. Cawing gulls and the occasional albatross following the _Aquila _like dolphins. The crew was in a good humour after being out in the good weather, and some messy sea shanties kept a rhythm for them to heave ropes in time. In the crow's nest, Jacqueline was lounging back, sunning her face like a cat.

"Keep carryin' on like that and you'll get burned." Thomas, the actual lookout, volunteered.

It was a futile warning. The French assassin looked up at him, smiling lazily. Her cheeks were already scorched. "You wouldn't happen to have anything to drink, would you?"

Her friend scoffed and handed her a flask from inside his vest. "You're talkin' to a long time sailor. And I'd bet ten pounds that every crew member here has somethin' to drink."

"Connor probably doesn't know, or he'd ban everyone of alcohol and then we wouldn't have a crew." Jacqueline took a nip and handed it back. "He doesn't _approve _of drinking. Especially not with me."

"Speakin' o' whom, who's the old dog he's got with'm?" Thomas looked over the edge toward the upper deck, where silver-haired Haytham stood sternly next to his son. "Doesn't look too happy to be here, does he now?"

"That's his father." Jacqueline didn't need to look; she was back to sunning her face.

"You're kiddin'!"

"I'm not. They have…conflicting interests." A seagull landed next to her, and she casually backhanded it off its perch.

"I'll bet you five quid you can't shoot the old man's hat off."

Jacqueline looked up. "You're on." She swept her bow from her back and nocked an arrow in one smooth motion. When she spoke, it was down the shaft. "Though I should warn you I'm a deadly accurate shot."

"I'll believe it when I see it." Thomas crossed his arms and watched.

Jacqueline squinted an eye and focused on one of the outlying folds of Haytham's trifold hat. If she missed and killed him, well...no loss there. But for Connor's sake, she wasn't going to kill him, despite the ease with which she could do it. So she breathed out through her nose, took into account the winds and the rocking of the ship, and let the arrow fly. It flicked through the air as a silver glint. Her shot was accurate and speared the trifold off his head, but a sudden breeze that rustled the deck carried both arrow and hat overboard. It could be seen floating in the white foam trails behind the _Aquila _a moment later.

"Ha!" Jacqueline barked with a grin. Thomas grudgingly dug a few coins out of his pocket and slapped them into her open hand. "I almost deserve extra for that."

"Ah, shut up, ya great lout." Thomas pushed her teasingly. "Now you can get me a drink with that money."

"Uh oh." Jacqueline stifled her laughter at Haytham's glare up at them, but still snickered behind her hand. Next to him, Connor looked vaguely amused. "I think he's angry."

"We should hold a funeral for that lovely hat." Thomas snorted.

They laughed for a good few minutes afterward. When they eventually sobered up, their environment had changed slightly. The ship now slowly drifted through a ravine of the same white rocks. Moss-caked boulders poking from the azure water scraped faintly against the sides and belly of the brig. The seabirds that had followed in their wake had abandoned them for higher, sunnier climates.

"Ouch." Jacqueline rubbed her thumb on the insides of her fore and middle fingers. "My callouses are gone."

Thomas ignored her. He was looking the other way, out a brass spyglass toward the end of the narrow passage. "I think we've found our ship."

"Let me see." Jacqueline grabbed the spyglass and looked out. What was apparently the _Welcome _was floating in the bay at the end of the ravine. She gave the spyglass back to Thomas and jumped out of the crow's nest. Halfway down to the deck, she wrapped a hand around a rope and slid down to land before the upper deck and jogged up the stairs. She could feel the warmth of what would have been rope burn under her glove.

"Connor, the _Welcome _is up ahead. It's dropped anchor." She informed him.

"You owe me a new hat, young lady." Haytham snapped.

Jacqueline shrugged. "It was a good shot, though, right?"

He harrumphed and folded his arms over his chest. "My _son _may not mind your aimless gallivanting, but it's impractical and childish."

"But it _does_ make things interesting." She pointed out. His mouth flattened into a disapproving line. "Aren't you glad you didn't kill me?"

Haytham made a scoffing noise like he was going to point out why he _should _have, but Connor butted in before any more sparring of words could be enjoyed. "Did you see anyone on the _Welcome_?"

Jacqueline almost immediately dropped her joking persona. "_Non, _not that I could see. You think it is a ruse?"

"I think we should investigate." He decided after a deliberating pause.

"Right." She jogged back to the nearest shroud and made her way up to the crow's nest, navigating around another climbing sailor as she went.

Thomas was still looking through the spyglass when she hopped back into the nest; he was frowning, his mouth curled in a distrusting sneer. "She's dropped anchor." He removed the brass from his eye but continued staring suspiciously. "Somethin' don't smell right, Jack."

"I agree." She muttered and held out her hand for the glass. The slightly warped image of the ship swam before her right eye. It did look very abandoned, even for an anchored vessel.

The _Aquila _sailed cautiously into the small bay, circled around the cliff to drift up alongside the _Welcome._ Where Jacqueline was, she could look down at the empty deck. The singing below her quieted as the rest of the crew observed the curiosity. Birds were strutting along the shiny wooden rails, pecking at invisible bugs and leaving white streaks on the polished ship.

"There she is!" Thomas suddenly exclaimed. He was pointing out toward another exit from the tiny bay, where the real, occupied sloop was sailing away. Not seconds later, cannonballs splashed into the water next to the _Aquila _to make spikes of water.

The lookout was all business now. He clanged a bell three times and leaned down to call to Connor. "Enemy ahead! They're making to flee!"

White sails dropped open to catch the wind as the brig peeled out of the bay after Church's sloop, the real _Welcome. _The _Aquila _made haste after at nearly breakneck pace, fast enough that Jacqueline could feel the salty spray all the way up the ship. The sloop was far faster than them, but the little brig was able to keep pace enough not to lose Church.

"Why is that ship so fast?" Jacqueline clutched the nearby rigging with one hand and stood on the edge of the crow's nest, still following the _Welcome _through the spyglass. "It's huge!"

"They've got a headwind and a running start to boot." Thomas squinted into the west and the setting sun. "That monster could never outrun the_ Aquila _straight out."

The _Welcome _slipped into a gap between spits of land, and Jacqueline was surprised when Connor steered around instead of following through. She brought down her spyglass, having lost sight of the other ship. "What's Connor doing? We'll lose them!"

"Hmm…" Thomas rubbed the patch of black scruff on his chin and looked up as though testing the wind by just seeing at it. "The current 'round these parts is swift n' sure. If he sails true, we'll catch the bastards before they can weasel out."

Just as they rounded the sandy beach, they were besieged by the _Welcome_—ironically—and a few even smaller vessels. Taken by surprise, the _Aquila _took a heavy hit in the beginning. The pair in the crow's nest rocked dangerously as holes were blown into the side of the ship. The crew rushed into action while pieces of the hull flew out at all angles. Despite the hits, they were in perfect position to launch a counterattack.

"_What _is Connor doing?" Jacqueline cried, staggering back at the force of the cannon's blows. "Fire!"

On cue, the cannons went off in booming succession. But the cannonballs were two at a time and chained together, swinging through the air like a flock of lopsided birds. The chain smashed into and wrapped around the _Welcome_'s mizzenmast, bringing it crashing down.

"He's takin' her alive!" Thomas grabbed a rifle and tossed it to her before arming himself.

"Wow, what a shot!" Jacqueline put a hand over her eyes to block the sun and watch as, after the next volley, the main mast caved in and toppled over. It made a great cracking, warping groan as it went down, bringing a spiderweb of ropes snapping after it. Their unfortunate lookout went diving into the water.

As they neared the _Welcome _to board, the _Aquila _jerked violently. Jacqueline went stumbling into the mast and groaned at the strike to her tender ribs. It felt like the world had tilted on its side for a moment such was her disorientation. When it levelled out, she had enough time to see her precious brig go crashing front-first into the starboard side of the _Welcome. _The two ships repelled like magnets and came to a rest side by side. She watched Haytham fling himself to the next ship, clearly set on finding Church.

The crew armed, men tossed rifles at anyone who would catch one. Aft lines were thrown to secure the ships together. The redcoats across the way readied for battle as well, but their ship was in flames. A great roar came up from the crowd, with the cracking of gunshots and clashing of blades, when the _Aquila_'s crew jumped across the ships. Scrambling up the side, she watched Connor lead the charge across the chaotic, rampaging deck.

"Oh, those rotten scoundrels!" Thomas bellowed incredulously, running forward to grab the edges of the nest and watch as his compatriots dove into the fight. "Not without me, you don't!" He grabbed hold of a rope and swung across to the next ship like a monkey on a vine with a whoop of adrenaline-fueled giddiness. Jacqueline followed Thomas' lead and went hurtling down to the _Welcome_'s deck.

Hitting solid ground, she looked around. Connor spotted her and raised a hand in greeting. She jogged up to him, drawing her pistol and shooting a redcoat in passing. "This is really what I needed, I must say. I'm feeling top calibre right now!"

"Have you seen my father?" He called over the din of stomping footsteps and singing steel.

"Just a moment ago, throwing himself to the wolves. Like father, like son." She rolled her eyes and pointed with her smoking pistol. "That way."

He nodded once and dashed off around a pile of burning crates that released a musky, aromatic smoke. "Hey!" Jacqueline called after him, but was stopped from following when she had to deflect an incoming cutlass. She struck it aside with enough force to dent his cheap steel and stab him. "Be careful, Connor!"

"Ahoy, Jack!" Thomas called, running past her in a flash of pistols and gun smoke. "Bloody hell, you fight like a demon!"

"I think the proper term is 'she-devil.'" Jacqueline took a knife from her belt and hurled it into a sailor's chest.

"Aye, that sounds right." He wasn't even bothering with strategy—where Jacqueline and Connor's fighting styles were based on their years of training and experience, Thomas was just shooting things, and having a lot of fun while doing it. "Where'd Connor go?"

"Off to murder someone, I believe." She kicked a piece of charred wood off a splintered crate and swung it hard, with both hands, to hit a man hard across the face.

The fight was starting to die down. Any remaining redcoats were surrendering. Jacqueline sheathed her weapons and sought out Connor, back the way he had left. He intercepted her on the way back, stony-faced and quiet. Blood was stained up his sleeve. "Where's Church?" Jacqueline asked, falling into step with him.

"Dead." He said simply, walking on even when she fell back. She glanced back and saw Haytham emerging from the bowls of the ship. He caught her gaze and she glared back a moment before stomping proudly on—for some deep-seated reason that made no sense, she blamed him for Connor's cloudy mood.

Jacqueline followed the rest of the victorious crew back to the _Aquila. _She climbed up into the crow's nest and sat on the edge, her legs dangling over into open space, and watched through the bright orange setting sun as they left the gutted ship behind.

-o-

The spring forest was cool and pleasant. Jacqueline's boots made impressions in the grass that was somehow both dry and damp. Bisou was trotting ahead, snuffling and wagging her tail. It was hunting time, and she was doing it only to get out of the house. It was time for Connor and Achilles to reconcile after their fight the past winter, and that wasn't an event she wanted to be around for.

While she had time to think, she considered her thoughts on Haytham Kenway. Now, after having working with him for only a short, reluctant time, she was forced to admit that his goals and the goals of the Assassins were far from different. Connor didn't seem to _hate _his company—in fact, she found their interactions amusing and enjoyed their banter as long as it remained peaceful.

Even so, there was a deep pit in her stomach, like a black chasm. It was the hate that Connor couldn't feel, the hate she already harboured, the hate that had been stirred by her torture, the hate in the hearts of the Templars that killed her parents, the hate that Georges felt for the forming government. She felt as though all the hate in the world was concentrated into her and she was going to take it out on Haytham.

Just thinking about it made her falter in her steps. She put a hand to her chest like her heart was giving out and sank down to sit in a large patch of creeping phlox. The white flowers parted under her with a wave of sweet air and a few disturbed bumblebees. Bisou trotted back to her and whined, eager to continue.

"I'm sorry, Bisou." Jacqueline sighed wearily and scratched her hunting hound behind her ears. "I just suddenly became so tired."

A long time passed while she lay back in the phlox, idly and sleepily watching the white, oval petals swaying over her nose. The previously upset bumblebees came grumpily back and began once more to search the flower stamens for pollen. One of the fat insects landed on the bridge of cloth her shirt made between her breasts and inspected a brass button. Finding nothing of use, it hummed away for sweeter treasures.

"Bisou, what do I do?" Jacqueline asked the dog lying next to her. "I care very much for Connor and do not wish to hurt him. But how do I do that when I despise his father?"

"Aroo." Bisou yawned and put her heavy head on Jacqueline's stomach.

"I agree." She patted her dog's nose. "I must eliminate the competition for Connor's affection." A wry chuckle drifted up to the flowers. "I refuse to share him!"

Bisou snorted into her shirt and put a big paw up on her leg.

"You're right, again. That's ridiculous. Those two hate each other."

"Who are you talking to?"

"Oh!" Jacqueline sat up quickly, pulling herself from the lulling scent of the flowers. The bumblebees buzzed away again, irritated. Connor was standing over her, observing mildly. "Just Bisou." She grinned and laid back again.

Connor sat down beside her. "I am to meet my father again. Will you come?"

"Are you asking if I'm going to accompany you, or are you asking me to do so?"

He looked up and sighed. She knew that he got impatient when she answered questions like that, but it was too tempting to pass up. "Both."

"Then the answer to both is no."

That seemed to surprise him. "Why?"

"I…" She stopped and restarted. "There's nothing more I have to do with your father. I do not want to accompany you until you've either stopped working with him, or he is dead. I'm sorry."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Jacqueline turned her gaze up to him. A beat passed. "Yes, I suppose you do. When do you leave?"

"This evening."

"Then come here. I suppose I should say my goodbyes now so you have time to prepare. It's close to sundown." She reached up and gently pulled him down by the front of his robes. She considered kissing him, but decided against it and settled on being held. It was soft and comfortable in their little nest—Connor was warm and the flowers smelled mildly pleasant. He was becoming more comfortable with being around her, and now held her a little closer and a little tighter.

Jacqueline dozed away the afternoon in the scent of wet grass and Connor's forest mesquite muskiness. When she woke, she was alone.

-o-

_-Thanks for the idea, __**EpicCritic! **__What can I say? I felt inspired! :) _

_-__**Review **__for adventure on the High Seas!_


	29. Old Wounds

"_I will hurt you for this. I don't know how yet, but give me time. A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid." –George R. R. Martin, _A Clash of Kings

_-o-_

"Ouch!" Jacqueline sharply drew her hand back from a green thicket, glaring. A small snake was curled up there, hissing angrily. "You little…damn." The reptile reared, and then darted away into the grass.

"Careful, there." Georges chuckled, exhaling smoke out his nose. "Those little bastards like hiding out."

After Connor had left to meet his father, Jacqueline had gone to Georges for something to do. She had known he was a black market trader, but she had no idea the extent of his reach. The market stretched from Boston to New York and everywhere in between—even a little bit of Canada, he proudly assured her—and was more effective than she'd like to admit. It didn't please her going to the market for work, but after a few days she felt admittedly a little lost. Connor was like her compass.

She knew jealousy was petty, but yet it burned.

Jacqueline glowered and pressed her bitten hand to her torso. "Thank you for the warning. Now, have you something for me to do or not?"

"I've not much for any skilled assassin, I'm afraid." Georges puffed at the pipe stem. "What're you looking at me for, besides? I thought you'd be off prancing through New York with the pretty boy Connor."

"…He's with his father."

Georges frowned and exhaled to the side. The smoke billowed in opaque puffs, and then dispersed into the branches of the tree under which they were sitting. "That explains things. I suppose you don't want to go because of the old Templar, right?"

Jacqueline almost answered, but then stopped and glared suspiciously. "How do you know about that?"

"You're forgetting who you're talking to again!" He nearly sang. "I know more than you think. Assassins, Templars, I have a vague grasp on who's who and what's happening, which is why I understand. And don't worry, I'm not taking sides, but if I were, I would obviously be on yours. So, now that we have that out of the way, what do you say we take a bit of a holiday?"

"I don't like the sound of that…I think your idea of a holiday and my idea of a holiday are very different."

"They both involve fantasies of muscular men, so maybe not so different. And as tempting as it sounds to hunt Connor down like a wild animal," He paused and grinned wistfully at whatever mental image he was cultivating. "I think it's in your best interest to take. A. Break."

"I don't _want _one." Jacqueline saw a glimmer of movement through the grass; the garter snake was scouting her out. "I want to do something useful. Something with _meaning. _Getting drunk is not meaningful."

"Isn't it?"

"No, it isn't." She stood. "I know what I want to do."

"And that would be…?"

Jacqueline walked back to Blanche. "I want to find the men who murdered my parents."

Georges sat straight up. "Wait, now. Are you sure? That's...where will you go? Home? Who's to say they're even still there? And if they are, would that make you any better than them?"

"I don't care!" She snapped back, louder than intended. Her anger had suddenly flared, but she did her best to tamper it. "I want this. I need it."

"Why now?"

"Because…because…" Jacqueline didn't want to say the real reason. Being around Haytham had resurfaced long forgotten memories, and a vengeful fire had been sparked inside her. But she wasn't going to admit that. "I don't know. I need closure."

He sighed, long and suffering, and took a heavy drag from his pipe. When he spoke, smoke leaked from his mouth and nose like a dragon. "What about Connor?"

Jacqueline glanced away. "He'll have to fend for himself for a while. I don't want him to know what I'm doing for once. He wouldn't approve."

"And how long are you going to be on this voyage?"

"Months, surely. Maybe a year. I don't know how long it will take me to find them." She pulled herself up into Blanche's saddle, the stirrups jangling. "I do not know when I'll see you again, so for now, this is goodbye."

"Farewell, dear Jacqueline. Do spit in the streets of Bayonne for François and me. A wretched fishing town, don't you think?"

"Yes." She agreed, almost too quietly for him to hear. "Wretched."

-o-

"Faulkner. Please." Jacqueline followed the drunken first mate-turned-captain as he tried to avoid her. "Connor isn't going to need the Aquila for a while, I don't think. I will only take volunteers, if that's what it takes."

"Lass, not a-one o' these scoundrels is gonna undertake some fool's errand 'cross the pond!" He slurred. It was the afternoon, and he had already started drinking.

"I just need it for a year, at the most." She gestured to the brig, floating in the bay. "Why do you need it so badly?"

"I don'!" He exclaimed. "I just don' wan' yer grubby paws all over it."

"Faulkner, I helped rebuild the _Aquila_. If not for me and Connor, you wouldn't have a ship for me to get my paws _on._"

"The answer's no!"

"Damn it, Faulkner, I—"

"Ahem."

The two who were arguing looked to see a sheepish Thomas edging toward them. "I couldn't help but overhear you, and I would volunteer to be a crew."

"Ha!" Jacqueline put her hands on her hips and turned back to a scowling Faulkner.

"Ya need more'n two people to crew a ship, lass." He grumbled. "Gloat when you've got one." And he stumbled away to sit against the wall of the shack.

Thomas turned to raise an eyebrow at her, and she at him. "How many crew members are you on good terms with?" Jacqueline asked.

"A few at least." Thomas held up a hand of cards and gestured back to a game he interrupted by volunteering. The three other sailors nodded to her. "And they know others. I'll be back in two ticks."

Not knowing what to do, Jacqueline waited while he rounded up willing crewmembers. She looked up the high cliff to the manor, and considered going to say goodbye to Achilles. She had told Faulkner a year, but she actually had no idea how long she was going to be gone. Before she could make a solid decision to visit her mentor, Thomas came jogging back, short of breath but smiling.

"We have a crew." He declared.

The next two days passed in a blur of getting the men ready and gathering everything needed, until all at once it was time to leave. Jacqueline dressed out in her seafaring uniform for the first time in what was probably years. Tall boots, a trifold hat and a blue and gold uniform all fit her well. After transferring the Queen of Hearts to her hat, she looked around the ship and walked up to the helm. Faulkner was there, along with the navigator. She didn't know the route back to France, only the direction—east.

"We're to set a course nor-nor-east, sir, and if the wind favours us it should be a swift journey." The navigator walked a compass across a crumpled and wine-stained map, where the ink was running in places.

"How long will it take to reach France?" Jacqueline stepped in, gaining both men's attention.

"We should reach Europe in about three months' time if the wind is in our sails and the water on our side. Ma'am." He added.

"Fine job, man." Faulkner slapped the navigator on the back, and he went scurrying off. "You're damn lucky I'm a charitable man, lass."

"You wouldn't be charitable if it stepped on your foot." She smiled and leaned against the wheel. "You're willing to go with us? It's going to be a long trip."

"Always wanted to go to France. How's the liquor?"

"Better than whatever swill you usually drink."

"Eh!" He laughed and pushed her aside. "Go help load boxes on. We need 'nough supplies to get 'cross the pond."

Jacqueline walked back along the boardwalk to help the sailors bring up crates of hard tack and barrels of fresh water. She was happy to see a burlap bag of oranges brought up along with all the supplies. Back and forth she went; carrying one end of a crate while someone else carried the other. Gunpowder, food, water, and medical supplies were their main concerns. At last, she found on the return to the dock that there were no more barrels that needed loading. She quickly boarded again and climbed up to the crow's nest. Thomas handed her a wineskin and she took a sip.

The _Aquila _lurched when the anchor was pulled up, and the brig caught wind out of the bay. The sailors who hadn't volunteered—the ones with families, loved ones, wives—bid them goodbye, blowing sarcastic kisses and waving spotted bandannas after the ship. Jacqueline waved back at them until the bay faded away into the distance, along with the manor and the hill, until all that remained was the water.

"Well," Thomas sat back. Only then did she notice he'd brought a small, beaten viola along and strummed an upbeat tune upon it, holding it sideways against his body. When he moved it, something clunked about inside the small body. It was out of tune, as far as she could tell, but she was no musician. "Shall we?"

"We shall." She beamed and looked out to the ocean, squinting into the salty air.

-o-

One month into their journey, they were good and out to sea. There were almost no other ships. The horizon was a vast, endless expanse of perfect blue. This far out into the ocean, Jacqueline enjoyed watching dolphins chirping and jumping in their wake. It was the first time she had been out since her arrival in the Colonies—it felt like she was travelling backwards in time. Sometimes she stopped and wondered just what the hell she was doing, or if she had gone mad. But then she remembered Haytham and Connor, and she was put back into her right mind.

Thomas continued to entertain with his curious instrument. He played short, tinny songs that often had raunchy or funny lyrics. Jacqueline knew he was the one who played in the galley when the nights were warm, and drinking and dancing was inevitable. But she was still baffled by the thumping sounds of something inside it.

"Now just _what _is in there?" She asked one day when she was on watch, eating a piece of tack and scanning the horizon. Her hood was down, the first couple buttons on her shirt open. It was sweltering in the summer heat, with little breeze to offer the sails.

Thomas strummed pointedly, and then gave the viola a little shake. "It's a mystery."

"Arse."

"I do have one." He smacked his hip and began on a tune he favoured.

"Where did you learn to play?"

"Originally, for my girl." He gazed off into the distance. "Lovely thing, she was. Pretty as a picture, with a mouth like a steel trap. Never fell so hard nor fast for a lass."

"What happened?"

"She died. Some nasty sickness or another. Watched her wither away."

"I'm sorry."

"Ah, 'tis nothin'. It's been a long time. 'Sides, when my serenadin' days ended, I joined the navy. Fell out, fell in with the drunk," –he nodded back to Faulkner at the helm— "And that's two stories in one." The tune came to an end.

"What's that?" Jacqueline sat up and peered out into the distance. A fleck on the horizon was moving toward them. Thomas handed her a spyglass and she squinted out at the approaching thing. A black flag snapped and wavered at the top of the ship. "Uh oh."

"What? What is it?"

"Look for yourself." She handed it off to Thomas and shifted around the mast to clang on a bell. "Captain! Pirates ahead!"

Faulkner, who had taken over for Connor, wasted no time. "You heard her, lads! Get to it! Ready the weapons, all hands to stations!"

The crew exploded into action. Higher-ups shouted orders, footsteps pounded across the deck, cannons were wheeled into position. _Boom! _A shot from the pirates went whistling through the air to rip a crescent of cloth off a sail. Thomas exclaimed in surprise, and Jacqueline flinched to the floor.

"_Merde! _That was too close." She straightened and watched as their ships drew closer.

"It's about to get closer." Thomas spun his viola around in his hand, the strings twanging sourly. In one quick move, he smashed it against the side of the crow's nest. He reached into the mess of broken wood and frayed strings to produce a big, heavy-bottomed pistol that was by some miracle crammed into the thing. "'To my dear Tom—for when you meet those pirates'." He read an inscription on the barrel, and kissed it. "She always knew I wanted to fight pirates."

"You kept that hidden just to break it out when you encountered pirates?" She asked incredulously, picking up a rifle and checking it for rounds.

"Aye. My girl had it made for me." He stroked the weapon affectionately. "Last real thing she did 'fore she fell ill."

Jacqueline smirked, but there was a call to brace, and she had to duck behind the thin walls of the nest. The ship was rattled by a few hits, but came to a more sudden than natural halt. She peeked up to check, and saw that hooks had been launched into the _Aquila_'s starboard side. The scalawags on the other ship roared eagerly, rotten teeth bared in bloodthirsty anticipation. The crew of the _Aquila _put up a defensive line of bayonets to guard against the thieves who swung over and jumped across.

"We're in a good spot, mate." Thomas leaned out and aimed his special pistol down at the crowd. It went off with a massive bang that sent his arm reeling back, and a pirate toppled from a rope he was swinging on.

"I agree." Jacqueline was launching arrows as fast as she could load them, trying not to hit anyone in a friendly uniform. "These pirates are really no match for us, are they?"

It was true. The attacking party was dropping back and the few who remained were either ready to flee or fight to the death. Guns were banging and scimitars smashed about like an out of practise orchestra. Jacqueline stopped fighting and leaned over the edge of the nest to watch the fight go on, almost amused at how easily the _Aquila_'s crew was trouncing the pirates. The smoke from the cannons was finally reaching them, floating up like earthly clouds. It smelled strongly and made her eyes burn. Before long, the pirates were killed off, and their tiny sloop sent drifting off into the ocean in the wake of the _Aquila. _Jacqueline watched it until it faded out of sight, abandoned and gutted. The sight made her vaguely melancholy, though for what she didn't know.

Shrugging the feeling away, she sank down into the meager shade of the nest and closed her eyes for some sleep. It was going to be a long journey.

_-o-_

_-I know an obscene amount on snakes, okay. Like a mad amount. Like, don't-talk-to-me-unless-you-eventually-want-the-subject-to-be-snakes. _

-_So there will be another break from the story, obviously, this one maybe longer than the last. A lot of people have been saying they like when Jacqueline leaves the story occasionally, so your wish is my command._

_-__**Review **__for sea shanties!_


	30. A Bouquet

"_Hiraeth__ […] is a Welsh word that many Welsh speakers claim has no direct English translation. The University of Wales, Lampeter attempts to define it as homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed. It is a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, and the earnest desire__for the Wales of the past." –Wikipedia _

_-o-_

"Where is she?"

Georges looked up from the neat stacks of coins in front of him. A blond eyebrow raised lazily, arrogantly, up at the dangerously impatient Connor. "I don't know what you're talking about." He drawled.

"I know Jacqueline came to see you before she disappeared. Now I'll ask again: _where, is, she_?" He dragged out the last three words for emphasis.

The young kingpin took a long time, really considering if he should reply. "She went to Europe."

"She did _what?" _Connor grabbed Georges by the front of his shirt, in both hands to lift the thief fully off the ground. It didn't even make his eyes widen, like angry Native Americans interrogated him every day.

"She left to Europe, as I just said. Perhaps, oh, five weeks ago? _Excusez-moi, _Connor, but it wasn't as though I could _stop her. _You know how that woman is. Worse than a mule." Georges had his hands up in surrender beside his head, but was grinning at some private joke.

"Where did she say she was going?" Connor dropped him unceremoniously.

The trader brushed himself off with faux dignity. "France. Probably our old hometown for starters."

"Why?"

"To find the Templars who murdered her parents, I was told. She isn't going to back for a long time. She said a year at least."

Somehow, that made Connor even more frustrated. "How could you just let her _leave?_"

"I don't recall being the one who abandoned her for his father, do you?" Georges' patience had apparently run out, and his tone was biting. When Connor failed to reply, disarmed by the unwelcome jab, he continued. Georges seemed to take some perverse pleasure in throwing unexpected facts his way. "That girl's in love with you."

Connor was becoming increasingly flustered by this man and the conversation was quickly spiraling out of his control. He groped for a response and came up with a pathetic, "How do you know this?"

"How do you _not _know this? It's probably why she ran off." Confident he was not going to be killed, Georges pulled out a pipe and held it between his teeth.

"Explain." Connor gritted out shortly.

"You left her to be with your father, a man neither of you particularly like. Who, might I add, tortured her along with some associates you've since failed to kill. She's been an emotional cripple since then, which I'm sure you've been oblivious to, bless your heart. On top of that you've been keeping her in a state of considerably volatile sexual tension—oh, don't look at me like that, I can tell just by seeing at her that she's ready to pounce even me. How do you think she feels?"

His actions in the past several weeks came back to him, and Connor felt an unexpected surge of guilt. He paced away from Georges and back again, hands behind his head. "Then what do you suggest I do?"

The Frenchman shrugged through the cloud of smoke. "Wait."

-o_-_

When the shore of Bayonne came into view three months from their departure of the Colonies, Jacqueline watched a long time. The shapes of the skyline, the smell of the air, the colour of the water. It came back like the rush of the flood, so strong and powerful it was like a blow. She felt unable to tear her eyes away, yet at the same time aching to suddenly turn around and change her plans, leave France forever and never return.

But that didn't happen. The _Aquila _drifted up into the port, clunking and swashing the water around, before dropping anchor. The boardwalk was hefted out, and that was that. They were back.

Jacqueline was distinctly aware of Thomas watching her warily. "Ye gonna be all right there, lass?"

It took a moment for her response to wrestle its way past the knot of emotion in her throat. "Yes, I…think I will be fine. I should get started at once."

"Well, I'm comin' with ya." He followed her down the shrouds.

"No, you aren't." She replied sternly. If she could prevent it, she was not letting him get caught up in the Templar-Assassin conflict. "This is something I have to do alone. I went through it alone, and I'll end it alone."

"If ya think that, yer daft. I ain't just gonna let ya—"

"Thomas!" She snapped, landing down on deck. "I mean it. Stay and see the sights. But I don't want or need your help."

He frowned at her, and Jacqueline suddenly got the impression she had gotten with Georges—just because he was lighthearted didn't mean he was an idiot. "If that's what ya want, I shan't stop ya."

"Thank you." She said after a moment, and quickly left the _Aquila. _

Jacqueline took the first day to get her bearings straight. Some of the old streets had changed, been overrun or reoccupied. When she saw a familiar face—most of which were now wrinkled after a twelve-year absence—she turned the other way. She didn't want to be recognised. After wasting the hot afternoon in the fishing town, she bought a map and located a spot in the countryside. Before she left Bayonne, she discreetly and with a hint of amusement spat on the nearest curb.

"That's for Georges." She whispered.

Night fell slowly. The sun reluctantly dragged itself westward, trying to prolong his time in the sky before giving in to his pale sister, the moon. Jacqueline spent a long evening weaving through growing wheat fields and tall grasslands, thinly wooded areas and one small, gurgling crick. It was when night fell for good, and the stars poked through the sky and the moon cast gray-blue light across the world, did she finally reach her destination.

She stopped walking the second she saw it. Frankly, she was shocked it was still there after so long, but she supposed not many people came out of the city very far. It was overgrown, but there were still faint scars in the dirt where plants had taken their time growing back. For some reason, she removed her shoes when she walked closer, the way one removes headgear when entering a home.

The ruins of her childhood house were smaller than she remembered, but still very much there. Bricks were crumbling in the ragged shapes of walls. Jacqueline stepped through the outline of the kitchen, where a large shrub had sprung up. Her parents' bedroom had been decimated completely, taken over by the grass. The ghosts of the past haunted the air; the pounding on the door, the smell of bread, the silvery figures of her parents drifting through the blackened wood beams.

Something cold underfoot made her jump back in surprise, tearing her from her visions. It was an old cast iron cooking pot. She picked it up tenderly, as one would a newborn child. It was heavy, somehow lodged into the ground to last all the years she had been gone. It was rusted and filthy, but she held it up to her face and pressed her cheek against to the gritty surface. She wanted to feel the house again.

When she opened her eyes, her gaze fell on a sight outside the house. She set the pot down tenderly. She stepped out of the ruins, taking her boots on the way, and approached the wooden crosses. There were no names, and no markers, but there didn't need be any. She already knew who lay below.

Kneeling at her parents' graves, Jacqueline rested a hand on one of the crosses. The wood was tied tightly together with twine. "I'll find them." She told the bones.

There were flowers at the graves. Withered bunches of wildflowers tossed hastily across the short grass and weeds that had grown over the mounds of soil. Jacqueline picked up some of them and made her way back to Bayonne. It was easier to get back, and she soon found herself entering the way she had left. The nearest inn looked promising, and she magnetised there. A few members of the _Aquila _crew recognised her and waved or said hello over their drinks, but other than that no one paid her any mind.

Jacqueline walked up to the innkeeper, a weathered and tanned older man. She remembered to speak French at the last second. "Excuse me. Would you happen to know anything about those two graves up on the hill? I found these on them." She held up the dying flowers.

"Ah, the Savage graves." He nodded understandingly. Jacqueline recalled her surname—Sauvageot, or Savage in English. Now that she was older, she realised both her parents' names had meant, "savage eagle". It made her smirk.

"Those graves have been there for years." The innkeeper went on. "Victims of a nasty fire. Old townsfolk found two bodies and buried 'em. Some say the pair had a child, but it must've perished in the fire, the poor thing. Anyway, not many visit those old graves anymore except for one. He comes by every month to put new flowers there. He should be stopping by soon. Always drops in here on his way, since it's so close to the edge of town. You're free to keep a room and wait; I'll tell you when he arrives."

"Thank you, that would be ideal." Jacqueline put a few coins on the counter, and saw with a start they were British pounds sterling. "Oh! I'm sorry, I'm just back from the Colonies."

"Not a problem, miss, I take these too. Lots of regulars only use their currency." The innkeeper smiled, and his face wrinkled up. He was like a nicer version of Achilles, Jacqueline mused. He handed her the key to her room, and she hurried away to find it.

The room was tiny and smelled of fish, like the rest of the town. She sat on the bed and wished suddenly that Connor were with her. She'd been holding it off since the minute she'd stepped aboard the _Aquila, _and now it came racing back. Wallowing in the wave of homesickness, she laid back and fell asleep in her clothes.

-o-

The next day was mercifully overcast, blocking out the brutal late summer sun. It rained around noon and the rest of the day smelled like water on stone, the petrichor refreshing and sharp. Recovering from the emotional hardship of the previous night, Jacqueline numbly roamed the streets. She bought a baguette from a bakery and ate it with orange spread. There was little for her to do while waiting for her quarry to drop into her lap.

Again, she thought of Connor. It was some kind of profound aching, right deep in her soul, which missed him. It made her feel a little foolish, but it was true. She could imagine him in her situation: he would never wait for this person. He would take the initiative and hunt him down, probably interrogate him, and move on to the next lead. He never had the patience and wherewithal to do what she was doing now. Everything had to happen _right away _and _as soon as physically possible. _Perhaps he had already found Lee.

Someone tripped over her feet, bringing her out of her reverie. "Sorry." Jacqueline pulled her feet in closer, but really didn't care that much.

The man she'd tripped was older, perhaps old enough to be her father or even grandfather. He had a dignified air about him, but his downturned eyes suggested a fall from grace. Jacqueline felt a little worse about tripping him. "_Pardon._" He muttered, tipped his hat, and hurried away.

Bored now, Jacqueline wandered back to the inn. When she arrived, the same man was bundled in a corner, concealing something under his jacket. She glanced at him but continued on to address the innkeeper. "Any sign of him yet?"

"_Oui, mademoiselle._" He pointed. "That's he."

The older gentleman looked away, as though ashamed of being pointed out. Jacqueline pulled out a chair with a screech and sat across from him. Her hands clasped on the table, she asked coolly, "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes." He nodded, not making eye contact. "That little girl."

Jacqueline leaned forward and saw that he was holding a fresh bundle of flowers. "What is your name?"

"Norman Durand, _mademoiselle, _and I can say with shame that I was one of five who killed your parents." He admitted. From his front pocket he removed a Templar cross on a chain, wrought in polished steel.

In response, Jacqueline reached down the front of her blouse and showed the glinting Assassin necklace she wore. Norman nodded, as though expecting nothing less. "We are two of a kind, then."

"What makes you say that?"

"We have both lost much, and gained little." He coughed into a handkerchief, and when he tucked it away, it was spotted in blood. "I can tell. Your only advantage is that you are young, healthy, and beautiful. I am none. I am glad you became an Assassin. It's a fitting role, as you've come to kill me. I know that is your goal, and I beg you carry it out."

This took her by surprise. "Why?"

He sighed, wearily, and raised a hand to the innkeeper. The old barkeep brought two mugs of black beer to their table. Durand drank deeply from one before speaking. "It's a long story. I hope you want to hear it."

Jacqueline sat back, patiently interested, and gestured for him to continue.

"It started on that very night, all those years ago. It's why I remember you so clearly. My garrison was given information that two infamous, though retired, Assassins were hiding in the southwest of France. It was just orders, a simple extermination. We couldn't let them exist as a possible breach in security. I didn't know there was a child." He shifted uncomfortably. "I questioned my direct superior, a man named Pascal Morel. He told me that there was no child accounted for. We killed them, and I am sorry for the suffering this has caused you, I truly am. I managed to convince the others to leave you alive."

Jacqueline remembered. When she ran from her burning house, some of the men pursuing her stopped, conversed, and let her run.

"Of course, that was the beginning of the end for me. Morel passed along my betrayal to the higher-ranking Templars. They instigated my exile from the Order and assured I could never keep a job. My wife left me, taking with her our child. I've spent the last dozen years homelessly wandering. I caught a horrid illness recently, and I don't have long anyway. So, yes, I would like you to kill me. It's only fair."

There was a long pause. Jacqueline took a sip of the dark ale, licked her lips, and sighed. "It will not bring me happiness to take your life."

"I shouldn't think it would." Norman smiled mildly. "But if you find Pascal Morel, I believe he will be a more satisfying kill. Follow the chain of command until you find Christophe Rousseau, the leader of our company. I would tell you more, but I've since lost track of him."

"Thank you." Jacqueline offered her hand, and they walked out of the inn together.

Their path led them far behind the inn, to the edge of town. They waded through dewy tall grass in the dim evening until the lights of Bayonne were flickering stars at the shoreline. The line of the forest behind them was dark, the stars above them forming into twinkling constellations and galaxies.

Norman stopped suddenly. "Here," He said quietly, and handed the bouquet to her. "Please, take these to the Sauvageot graves for me. Now do it, quickly, before I lose my nerve."

Jacqueline unsheathed her hidden blade and stabbed him in the side of the neck, too fast for a reaction. Blood rushed up her forearm in a hot wave. Norman went limp, instant dead weight. With a final twitch, he wheezed, "Thank you."

"_Resposer en paix_." She eased him back into the grass with an effort and folded the bouquet under his hands, on his chest. Breathing deeply out, she turned and walked away.

-o-

_-I've been asked a few times if Aveline will make an appearance, and the answer is likely no. I've never played Liberation and I don't exactly want to write for something I haven't played or for a character I don't know. Sorry!_

_-To any native French speakers, feel free to rip me a new one because of my crude education in the language. I know that "reposer" is probably the wrong usage of the verb, but research just got me pretty confused and feeling like an idiot._

_-Yeah, it's pretty much gonna be Kill Bill: AC version._

_-__**Review **__for a new adventure!_


	31. The Pink Princess

"_And I started to hear it again, but this time it wasn't the end, and the room was too quiet, oh, oh, oh. And my heart is a hollow plane for the devil to dance again, but the room is too quiet, oh, oh, oh." –Florence + The Machine, "Breath of Life"_

_-o-_

Tracking down Pascal Morel turned out to be no easy task. The man, from what Jacqueline could gather, was a gambler of the worst sort. Money flew across France from his hefty bets and debts. He was notorious in taverns across the country, but no one seemed to know exactly where he was. Weeks passed as Jacqueline travelled from town to town, asking countless barkeeps and tavern proprietors, card dealers and bankers.

After about a month and a half of relentlessly scouring the west coast, she pinned his location to a bordello called the _Princesse Rose_. Instead of charging in, guns blazing, she defaulted to the humble tavern next door, the Speckled Mare. It was far overshadowed by its more spectacular, lurid neighbor. The innkeeper was a barrel-chested man with a stark red beard. He polished the mug in his hands with such force that it looked ready to break.

The reason it was taking Jacqueline so long to find her target was that she had no connections. In the Colonies, she and Connor had allies to spare. Here, she was stranded, but she didn't have the first idea how to go about collecting allies.

Sitting at the inn, her opportunity came upon her. Four men marched into the tavern and began to yell at the bearded innkeeper in a language she wasn't sure of—German? But there was clearly some bad blood; the barkeep stopped cleaning dishes and began yelling back. One of the attacking men threw the first punch, and good blow square in the nose, and things quickly escalated when the innkeeper fought back.

Jacqueline stood immediately and grabbed one from behind. He struggled momentarily, but eventually went limp. Another, a stringy man who was probably a tax collector, held up his fists threateningly. She coolly tripped him once and sent him sprawling, and it was enough to keep him down. The last two were taken care of by the barkeep, who was, unsurprisingly, a hell of a fighter. When the men who were still standing had run off, dragging their unconscious friends, he turned to her.

"Many vanks, my vriend," His accent was indeed German. "Nasty, zey ver."

"What was that about?" Jacqueline popped a few joints in her fingers.

"Zey ver accusing me of stealing some voman." He waved a hand. "Fools, ze lot of zem. Now, how I may I vepay you for your assistance?"

"I need to get into the Pink Princess, next door, and I have to be careful. Do you know any back door routes I can take to get in without being seen?"

"Hmm…_nein, _but I do know how you can get in. Come vith me." He beckoned, and she followed. "Alzo, my name is Johann."

"Jacqueline."

"Good to meet you, Jacquevine." Johann mispronounced.

"You seem very casual about this. Aren't you worried about what I'm doing?"

"_Nein. _Ve are more similar zen you tink, Jacquevine. Vord has been going around ze vest coast zat ze Assassins have veturned." He showed her his left hand, and she could see a tiny Assassin insignia branded onto his meaty ring finger. "I knew right vhen you valked in you vere vone of us."

"Then you know my target?"

"_Jah. _Morel." Johann spat the name distastefully and added a German curse on the end for good measure. "My associates have been following him _verrrry _carefully, zhoo see. I never expected a Assassin from ze Colonies to appear, howezer."

"Can you tell me where I might find allies? I'm blind and deaf here; this is the first time I've returned for about twelve years."

"_Ja._ Zere are many in Pariz, I know for zhure.

He led her through the back of the Mare and out into the evening, and then toward the Princess. "I know ze voman who vuns the Prinzess. She vill get you inzide."

He knocked on the back door of the Princess. There was a pause, and the door was thrown open to reveal an older woman. Heavy cosmetics covered lines of age, and dull brown hair was twisted into a hasty knot. Sharp green eyes peered out at them from the cloud of perfume that wafted out into the night.

"What do you want, Johann?" She demanded. "It's a busy night, and I have girls to look after."

"Madame, zis is Jacquevine. She needs a vay in to find somvone."

"Hrm." The madam grabbed Jacqueline's arm and dragged her into the pink-yellow light streaming out from the doorway. She was turned around and prodded, grabbed in a few places she would rather not be, and finally let go. "She's pretty enough to pass as one of my girls, but a bit stringy. Too much muscle." A bony finger prodded a firm abdomen.

"I need to find Pascal Morel." Jacqueline added, leaning away from her hands.

The madame's face changed considerably. The merchant inspecting a piece of meat turned into a greedy vulture that had eyes on its prey. "And what do you want with him?"

"I am going to kill him."

A grin made her face wrinkle at the cheeks, and exposed large teeth. "Excellent. You can come in. You can go now, Johann." She added lightly to the barkeep.

"Good luck." Johann waved, smiling past his absurd beard. "And zafety and peace, zister."

"Get in, quickly." Jacqueline was shoved inside the bordello and the door was closed and locked behind her. "You can call me Madame Emilee, or just Madame. Neither of us want you here long, though."

The room they were now standing in turned out to be bustling with other people. Girls ran here and there, changing dresses and brushing hair. They came in all shapes and sizes—plump, skinny, brunette, auburn, pale, tanned. It was a rainbow of women, bustling around in underthings and less. Jacqueline suddenly realised she may have made a terrible mistake.

"Francesca, Amelie!" Madame Emilee snapped, and two girls came rushing over. "Get her changed."

"Ah!" Jacqueline found herself being stripped down with the practised moves of people who had done this before. Her clothes were folded and tossed aside. "Where is Morel?"

"Around. The bastard only likes two things: gambling and girls." The Madame appraised her nearly bare form. "_Oui, _you're too lean. What do you do, starve yourself?"

"No. Ouch!" Jacqueline grabbed the nape of her neck, which stung when the hair tie was ripped from it and the long braid quickly dismantled. "What do you plan to do with me?"

"Morel likes…private sessions. I can give you to him, and you can kill him there. My girls will clean up the mess, and everyone wins."

"And what is your stake in this?" Her boots were tossed aside and her weapons belt along with them. "Why do you want him dead?"

"The man is scum, more so than the usual who come through my doors. He killed one of my girls once in a fit of rage. They can't _prove _it, of course, but we all know it was he. I want that bastard gone, and I want him to stay gone."

Francesca and Amelie pushed her around and pulled her into a blue courtesan's dress, tugging her limbs like they were dressing a disobedient child. Silver slippers with tall heels were jammed onto her feet. She was sat down in front of a mirror, and the girls went to work on her face. They brushed red paint over her lips and covered her face with all manner of powders, creams and colours, paying special attention to her very obvious scar, until she felt she could hardly raise an eyebrow without it all crackling away like plaster. She managed to keep a dagger hidden in her stocking.

"Good God, put some gloves on her!" The Madame exclaimed at the sight of her horrendously maimed arms. The girls dressing her grabbed navy gloves and shoved them onto her hands, up her elbows.

"I can put my own clothes on." The Assassin sneered, glaring at the blonde who was jamming faux flowers behind her ears.

"You are in _my_ brothel; you play by _my _rules. _Alors, _you look a bit better now." Madame Emilee appraised. "You'll know Morel when you see him. Whatever you do, don't stop smiling. Now, get out there and kill him."

Jacqueline was nearly shoved out of the dressing room and into the main room of the brothel. The place was just one enormous cushion of pink velvet and rose petals. Renaissance-style artwork of erotic poses were scattered along the walls. A small band of violin and flute players made lilting tunes. Claustrophobia set in. Taking deep, steadying breaths, she unsteadily swayed over to the card tables.

The Madame had been right about one thing—she knew him when she saw him. A lank, greasy man, he had the air of a pompous businessman without any of the charm. The stack of coins in front of him was hefty, and he was clearly cheating.

"Where did you learn to play cards, Jean-Claude? Your _mémé?" _His joke got a cruel chuckle from a few of his equally slimy friends. The man in question bowed his head, too afraid to speak up.

"Monsieur Morel?" Jacqueline raised her voice to a sticky-sweet falsetto. The Templar turned around, and she saw a red cross embroidered on cuffs of each sleeve. She forced an unsteady curtsey, feeling the strain in her ankles. "I'm your…escort…this evening."

"Well, well, well, boys." He grinned around at his cohorts. "Looks like the game is over. Shall we?"

"This way." Jacqueline led him down the hall to where she assumed there were bedrooms and prayed one was open. There was one at the end of the pink corridor, and she let him go before her.

"Are you new? I've not seen you here before." Morel stretched and loosened his necktie.

"Er…_oui, _it's my first day." Now she was just making things up as she went.

"I thought so. The usual girls are all the same; voluptuous, charming, eager. Not _real._" His eyes searched her, lingering and greedy.

Jacqueline resisted the urge to gag. "_Merci_." She managed through gritted teeth.

"Let's get to it, then." He gestured to the bed.

"You, er, you first." She smiled tightly, remembering what the Madame had said.

"I like you already." Morel smirked and reached for the buttons of his shirt, and that was where she drew the line.

Jacqueline was on him in a second, quick as a flash. She shoved him onto the bed and put a hand around his throat. Her knees kept his hands pinned to the satin. "Scream and you die." She hissed. "Do you know who I am?"

"Why the hell should I?" He choked. "Now get off of me!"

"You'll remember me before you die," Her hand squeezed tighter. "Fourteen years ago, you burned my home." From below the neckline of her dress she pulled her pendant and dangled it before his wide eyes. "_Templar."_

"Assassin!" Morel wheezed. Clammy hands pawed her arms, trying to get air through to his brain, but it was useless.

"I want information, Morel," She growled. "Who was in that garrison all those years ago? Give me names."

"H-Henri Girard, Richard L'Enfant, and…" He gasped for air. "Rousseau."

"Christophe Rousseau?" She snarled.

"_Oui, oui…_he was the leader. But you'll never find him! Even I don't know where he is!"

"Where is Henri Girard?"

"Last I heard he was further inland, holed up southeast somewhere. Agh!" He flailed when she held tighter. "H-He's clever, too clever for the likes of you, Assassin."

"I think not."

Jacqueline wasn't going to suffocate him. From her stocking she pulled the knife she had kept hidden, and quickly slit his throat. Time slowed, and she faded out of reality for a moment.

-o-

Standing in no-man's-land, she and Morel faced one another, but she also held his dying body. "What do you hope to accomplish, Assassin?" He sneered.

"I want justice to be served." Jacqueline snarled back.

"Justice!" Morel spat. He paced a few steps, and he also convulsed on the satin sheets. "You know nothing of justice. My death is one in vain, and will solve nothing."

"This is something I must solve for myself. You are a cruel man, and your end will be a relief to many."

The Templar laughed. "If you believe that then you're but a selfish child, a child with no concept of the real world. Me? I knew how things were, how they are." He smoothed back his greased hair. "I did what I liked because life is short, and humans are naught but stupid animals rolling in the filth we've made for ourselves. When I wanted money, I got it. When I wanted a woman, I took her. And when I wanted to _kill,_ I _killed_!" His voice had risen to a half mad scream.

"You aren't always supposed to get what you want." She replied calmly, eyes narrowed.

"Is that really what you believe?" Pascal Morel chuckled, shaking his head and turning his back to her. At the same time he breathed his last. "Then what are you doing here?"

-o-

"_Resposez en paix._"

The sheets soaked up the blood while Jacqueline climbed off. Grimacing, she wrestled the silver slippers from her sore feet and tossed them aside. Spattered in blood, she caused a stir when she went back out into the main hall, especially from Morel's companions. She expected a fight, but they just gave her a wide berth. Back into the dressing room she went. She rubbed her back of her hand across her painted mouth, leaving a haunting red smear across her cheek. The courtesans backed away, but they had grown up in tough lives and didn't much mind the sight of blood. Madame Emilee looked up from a record book with a victorious smirk.

"It is done." Jacqueline placed her red-spotted hands on the desk the Madame sat at and leaned forward dangerously. "Now give me back my clothes."

-o-

Connor sat hunched over the desk in the manor's study, scratching down schedules for recently dispatched caravans from the Homestead in the record book. When he was finished, he sat back and wrung out his hand.

It had been six months, and he still kept a wary eye out for the _Aquila. _Some part of him was hoping that she had changed her mind and decided to return early. The manor felt emptier than ever with Jacqueline gone and Achilles sick. The silence, punctuated by occasional coughs from Achilles' room, was something to behold. Having just returned from New York and his father's company, Connor was thankful for the peace and quiet. He knew that it was nearly time to set out again, however.

A bird chirruped outside, and stopped when a breeze rustled autumn leaves from the trees. He realised it had been a year since Jacqueline had been held in that fort. It was hard to believe how fast the time had flown.

Connor stood and walked into the kitchen. The oranges were all gone, rotten and tossed out. No one had disturbed Jacqueline's room, as though she were dead rather than in Europe. With a long, joint-popping stretch, he went to Achilles' room.

"Old man." He knocked on the doorframe. The mentor was slumped, asleep in his chair, but didn't respond.

The hairs on the back of Connor's neck stood up on end in a minute shiver. The air around the old man was cold. He moved up to Achilles and gave his shoulder a small shake. A piece of rolled parchment fell from his lightly curled fingers. It whispered against the floor, and the silence in the room reached new, deeper depths.

"Achilles?" He asked the question even knowing he would not be answered, not ever again. Connor backed away a step, reeling, and noticed the paper on the floor. He picked it up with reverence and scanned through it. The words only confirmed what he knew, but he would have to read it again when his roiling head had calmed. He almost felt the need to sit down.

He was alone.

-o-

_-The schedule I have planned is one kill per chapter, meaning 3 more of her hunt after this, but it's probably going to be more. _

_-Morel's death scene was based on the kills from ACI especially, because the targets would move and talk like a normal person as well as die with Altaïr. _

_-You guys reeeeeeeaaaaally gotta check out this song. It's just…love. _

_-__**Review **__for poor lonely Connor :( _


	32. Lost and Found

"_The antidote for fifty enemies is one friend." –Aristotle _

_-o-_

The town was abandoned.

Every colour in the world seemed washed out in a place like the little village Jacqueline had tracked Henri Girard to. It had taken her a long, long time to find him. From what little she could scrounge from the few willing to speak of him, he was a hermit and rarely left a tiny town near the southern border. In fact, it took her so long to pinpoint his location, travel between leads, uncover clues, and interrogate suspects that winter had come and gone and it was already spring again.

Hoarfrost broke away from the scraggly grass under her feet when she stepped into the edge of town. The buildings had been left gradually, the population trickling away until no one remained. At the centre of town was an enormous tower, the image from a fairy tale or something King Arthur's knights would explore. Moss grew up the gray flagstones, green-brown decay in the flesh of the building. A light flickered in the uppermost window.

As for the village, it was gutted and dead, eviscerated and left to rot. Jacqueline picked her way through the old side streets and alleys, looking for any sign of life. A skinny dog spotted her and balked, ran away with its tail between its legs. She picked up a young girl's ragdoll, left behind. A little beaded eye dropped out at the movement.

"What happened here?" Jacqueline's whispered voice made a puff of condensation in the air.

Someone's scuffing foot made her head snap, as quickly as the stray dog had looked to her. The edge of a cloak flicked around a corner across the street. She ran after it immediately, calling out. "Wait!"

Their footsteps echoed in the dead town, ringing hollowly against the frosted houses and empty shops. Jacqueline took to the rooftops and chased after from there. The person ran through narrow streets and even through buildings to try and lose her, but it was useless. Very nearly at the base of the huge tower, the person tripped and was sent sprawling. Jacqueline pounced and helped them up.

Now that she could see, the person was a boy. He was young, younger than her, and he clearly didn't want to be caught.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to ask a few questions." She assured him. "Don't run away." She set him on his feet. "What is your name?"

"Léon." He muttered. "And you shouldn't be here."

"…What did you say? Léon?"

He met her gaze. "_Oui. _And you need to leave _now_, Jacqueline."

Jacqueline's head reared back in surprise. She took a moment to respond. "You know Georges and François were worried about you."

"So? None of you ever cared much about me anyway." Léon tugged his cloak around him sourly.

"Is Henri Girard up there? What happened here?"

"One question at a time. I'll answer the first with yes, but if you know what's good for you, you will stay far away." The boy shifted from foot to foot. "To the second, it's hard to explain. Everyone left because they knew it was stupid and dangerous to stay."

"Thank you for the warning, but I will take my chances." Jacqueline placed an amicable hand on his shoulder and walked past to the door of the tower.

"Forgive me, Jacqueline." Léon said behind her. Before she could turn, something struck her hard over the head. White and red burst before her eyes and darkness flooded in.

-o-

Jacqueline was sitting in a meadow. It was summer, but early summer, perhaps June, when the sun was not so hot and the birds still sung in the trees. The weather was beautiful, and she laid back in the soft grass to bask in the fine afternoon. Padding footsteps in the grass made her head lazily turn. Connor sat down next to her. He looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him: his hair was loose, his shirt off, and he was smiling in that reserved, genuine way of his.

"Hello, Ratonhnhaké:ton." Jacqueline greeted happily, beaming at him. "It's a wonderful day today, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." He agreed. "Jacqueline, you are in terrible danger."

The sky filled with light clouds, blocking out some of the sun. She sat up when she spoke again. "What do you mean?"

"Please, only listen. You must escape before tomorrow morning, or else this is where you will lie forever more."

"You mean…I'm going to die?" Jacqueline suddenly felt very cold.

"Yes." A wolf howled in the distance, and Connor helped her to her feet.

"Can't you help me?" She held onto his arm beseechingly. "A clue, or something else?"

"Use the tools of the master scientist against him and you will find your liberation." Connor kissed her forehead. "Now, I have one last thing to ask of you."

"What is it?"

He placed his hands on her cheeks, and she could feel the calloused warmth of them. It felt very real, more real than reality. "Wake up."

Tears dripped down the corners of her eyes to land on his fingers. "I don't want to."

Dream-Connor hadn't heard her. "Wake up, Jacqueline. Wake up."

-o-

"Wake up!" A hand shook her shoulder.

Jacqueline jerked up, and dropped back down again. Something tight was around her head—a bandage, for the blow to her head. Metal and glass clinked nearby. Her vision gradually faded in to show her the leather straps over her wrists, the candles all around the room, the tray next to her stuffed with syringes and beakers.

"Finally. I must have hit you a bit harder than I thought." Léon was standing over her with a bowl in his hand. "Sorry about this, but I have to feed you."

"Where am I?" Jacqueline strained against her bondage, tugging at the straps.

Léon lowered a spoon of what looked like porridge toward her mouth. "You're in the tower. Monsieur Girard will be up shortly. Now, please, eat. We can't have you dying."

"Léon, do you know who your master is?" She asked vehemently. "He's one of those who burned my home! Do you remember me telling you, all those years ago, what happened to me? Well, _he _is one of those who caused it."

"Stop!" Léon snapped. "Girard is a great man, a genius. You're just lying to get me to turn against him, but it won't work." He threw the porridge down on an empty table as he stormed out. "If you want to starve, fine! But you'll be dead soon anyway."

The door slammed shut on the way out. Sighing, Jacqueline looked back to the ceiling and waited. It was early evening, and the setting sun cast a beam of light in through the window. In the corner of the room, she saw her effects folded and piled atop one another. Girard likely knew she was an Assassin now that she was upon him, but her element of surprise was foiled.

Not long after Léon had left, the door opened to reveal a surprisingly short, rotund man who may have passed for Saint Nicholas in better circumstances. His ruddy face creased in a sickly delighted smile when he saw her. "_Bonjour, mademoiselle._"

"_Bonjour, _Templar." She spat back.

"Oh, let's not get nasty. This is just business, after all. I'm sure this whole situation must be very stressful for you."

"I've been in worse, trust me."

"My, my, you do get around." Girard splashed his hands in a bowl of water and wiped them off on his apron. "Though I suppose in your profession, you're apt to do that. Me, I prefer the comfort of my tower."

"What do you plan to do to me?"

"Just a few tests. It's been quite some time since I've had a female subject, and I'm eager to begin. Once I've finished testing—which will eventually but surely kill you—I plan to dissect you and use you as a topic of study until your body rots and I throw you out with the rats, like the filth you are. How does that sound?"

His eerily upbeat tone of voice did not match his words at all, and despite herself Jacqueline began to feel rather disturbed. "I have come to kill you for your crimes fourteen years ago."

"Oh, I've committed so many. Do refresh my memory."

"You and four others burned my home and murdered my parents. I have already killed Norman Durand and Pascal Morel, and I will find Richard L'Enfant and Ch—"

"Yes, yes, Rousseau, I'm sure." Girard waved a hand and scoffed. "Your silly plan is already flawed. You may have killed Norman and Pascal, but this is where your journey ends, I'm afraid. Even if you killed me, Richard is even more elusive than I, and you would never find him. Christophe? Please. He's a shadow made of smoke. So let us stop this stalling and get on with the main event, shall we?"

He picked up an empty syringe and put it to her arm. Extracting blood hurt a lot more than Jacqueline was expecting, and she gritted her teeth at the stinging. Girard then took the blood to a large, complicated device and looked down at a drop through a large set of lenses.

That was only the first of the night. The damned scientist would inject her with different fluids and ask her what she felt, or how much pain she was experiencing. It hurt, yes. But this was a kind of Hell that Jacqueline had already fought through. She and Girard were both veterans in pain, and she had been planning her escape since she had woken.

There came a pause in the experiments, and Girard left the room with Léon in his wake. The boy now looked more humbled. At seventeen or so, she could give him credit for putting up with the madman's antics, but could tell it stressed him.

"Léon, you were such a brilliant boy." Jacqueline groaned, accepting the water he gave her. "What would make you turn to such evils?"

"Monsieur Girard has a vision for the future," He muttered, wiping her punctured wrists clean. "A vision where the strong prevail and the weak fail. He is training me to be the strong."

She rolled her head to the side. "Are you aware of who he really is?"

"I you mean his…Order, then yes, I do." Léon looked uncomfortable. "I know you're an Assassin, too. I want to ask…"

There was a long pause. "Yes?" She urged.

"What…what does it feel like to kill someone?"

Jacqueline actually thought about it. "It's something that permanently changes a person."

"Who was your first kill?"

"I was defending my home from tax collectors, or poachers, or whomever they were. I killed two men that night."

"How old were you?"

She did a bit of mental mathematics. "Fifteen or sixteen, in that region."

"I'm seventeen." He said quietly.

There was a heavy pause. Jacqueline decided she needed to make her move. "Please, Léon. You don't have to do this. Be your own man."

The boy grimaced and gathered his materials together. His knuckles were white around the pink-stained towel. "He'll kill me." He whispered.

"I can help you." Her voice was near begging, her whole body turned toward him as much as possible. "_Let _me help."

Léon stepped away, backing to the table near the door, which flew open. Girard entered in all his puffed-up, double-chinned glory. "Hello again, my lovely subject. I've got something very good, I just came up with it while eating supper."

He continued his rant, sharpening his knives and shears. "I recently learned that a few hundred years ago, your _kind _cut their ring fingers off to accommodate your hidden weapons. Barbarians, the lot of you. And I thought to myself, this is perfect! An opportunity to examine the knuckles and anatomy of the finger.

"Your left hand should do." He grabbed her wrist and wrestled her fingers until the ring remained away from the rest, and raised the knife.

Blade cut through flesh, and Jacqueline flinched. But there was no pain in her hand. Hot blood dripped down onto the operating table, across her arm. Girard looked down at the curved blade in his chest with shock. "'_Et tu, Brute?_'" He quoted, and fell.

Léon rushed forward and cut her bindings. Jacqueline dropped to her knees and crawled to Girard, and last words were exchanged.

-o-

Girard was less angry than Pascal had been. He just kept shaking his head, pacing the white expanse of the wasteland. "You have a tricky tongue, Assassin. Turning my own apprentise against me? Clever."

"It was what I had to do." She answered, a little hoarse. "I always do what I must to survive."

"Don't we all? See, the average person eats, they sleep, they reproduce, and that's all they do." His hands waved as he spoke. "But I did _more. _I _made_ something of my life. I didn't just survive—I flourished."

"You tortured so many, an entire town fled from you."

"Yes, yes, but that means I made an impression. Isn't that the goal of everyone? Not to live in anonymity, but to thrive and make a reputation?"

"This is a reputation that is not looked upon kindly." Jacqueline said coldly. "Do you know where Richard L'Enfant is?"

"No. Even if I did, I would never tell you. At the rate you're going, however, I believe you may be in luck. Richard is no coward. He knows you are coming for him, and he will rise to meet you, this I guarantee. And when he does, you had best prepare yourself, for all the fires of Hell could not compete with that man."

"I think you underestimate my determination."

"Oh, such arrogance, such foolish confidence!" He giggled, and became somber again. "You'll tell them, won't you? My work must be known…" A cough was wrenched from him. "I…I must be famous…"

-o-

"_Resposez en paiz._" Jacqueline closed Henri Girard's wide eyes and stood. Léon was staring at his red hands, shaking violently, white as a corpse. "You will recover, my friend."

"I…" His voice cracked. "He's dead."

"Yes. But we are both free and the world better for it." She picked up her robes and began dressing. "There is a lively town about ten miles north of here, untouched by Girard's evils. You should be able to find work and asylum there."

Léon was staring at Girard's body, in shock. "I've lived here most of my life. How…I don't know how to live any other way except as a thief."

"You'll learn. I know you will." Jacqueline put the last of her knives into their sheathes, tied her hair back and pulled up her hood. "Come. It's time we left this foul place."

As they left the tower together, the sun was rising in the east.

"I want you to have this." Léon broke the calm between them, his breath a puff in the fresh air. He reached over his head and took a necklace off. At first, it looked to be decorated with beads, but upon closer inspection was the full skeleton of a fish. "It's, er…it's the fish I caught. That day we all scattered."

"You kept it all these years?" Jacqueline took the necklace and observed it. Some of the ribs and spine fins were snapped off, but it was more or less preserved in a centimetre-thin layer of glass. "I'm honoured."

"_Ouais. _A reminder, I suppose." He cracked a small smirk, the first good humour she had seen from him. "It really was just a tiny fish, wasn't it?"

She chuckled and put it around her neck. "Yes, it was."

There was another long pause. Jacqueline put her cloak around her shoulders and started off. "Wait!" Léon jogged up to her.

"I should go."

"I want to be one of you." He said quickly. "An Assassin, I mean."

Jacqueline winced. "I don't think that would be a good idea. The life I lead is not for children."

"I'm not a child!"

"I'm seven years your senior, Léon. You're still a child to me. And this is nothing to joke about; my life is in constant danger. I refuse to put you in that situation."

"You don't have to. I'll just follow you around."

"You can try."

-o-

_-Whoo, 200+ reviews! I love every last one of you with all my heart(s)! _

_-Okay, __**rather important thing: **__I have a rough timeline thing sketched out; check my profile for the link. It's a little confusing until you have it all laid out. It has spoilers, yeah, sorry. __You don't have to look at it now unless you want spoilers for the times of future events__. Fair warning! :)_

_-Uuuuughhhh I hate thinking. Okay, at this point in time Jacqueline is 24 and Connor is 25. _

_-__**Review **__for mad scientists! _


	33. Correspondence

"_I hear you're living out of state, running in a whole new scene. You know I haven't slept in weeks? You're the only thing I see." –Anya Marina, "Satellite Heart"_

_-o-_

It was a busy day in the tavern. The bartender was running the place almost single-handedly. People bustled here and there, demanded drinks, started brawls, and generally made the day an average one for the weathered barkeep. He kept an eye on the opening and closing door, preparing for customers. At about noon a woman entered with a boy tagging along behind. A younger brother, perhaps, or possibly a son. She pointed to a table in the corner and said something to him. The kid obediently went to it and sat.

The woman approached the bar and asked for a glass of wine. She was young, maybe half the age of the curious bartender. Her skin was fair and freckled, her eyes and hair bright. She would have been quite attractive, but the scar on her face and her drawn, tired expression labeled her as a fighter, even without the armoury of weapons she had strapped across her body. She took the wine and sat at the table the boy was at.

Being a man raised in a family of humble, chivalrous blood, he kept a noble eye on the solitary woman and boy. Not many approached them. One enormous bulk of a man came in at one point. He sported a bushy red beard and made the floorboards shake when he stepped. The large man raised some alarms with the bartender, but the trio at the table seemed on decent terms.

He gave the woman a piece of paper, spoke shortly with her, and left. The woman watched after him until he left, and caught the bartender staring. He quickly looked away from those piercing eyes and went back to polishing a glass. But when she looked away, he watched again.

After giving the envelope in her hand a skeptical look, she tore it open and read the paper inside. Whatever was in that letter greatly interested her, and she leaned forward anxiously to read in depth.

The evening wore on. A hopeful suitor approached the mysterious woman's table but left disappointed. When the night came upon them, she quietly came back to the bar and ordered a room for the night. Instead of going to her room, she returned to the corner table.

A group of boys rushed her the moment she sat down, and ran off instantly. She looked surprised and stood immediately, finding her coinpurse missing. The group of boys ran out, and she after them. The woman returned a few minutes later, her right fist bruised and a few throwing knives missing from her array of weapons, her purse back on her hip.

The bartender saw this entire scene play out, and when the woman came back to the counter for another drink, he quickly handed it over and prayed she would turn in soon and leave.

-o-

Jacqueline raised an eyebrow at the wide-eyed old bartender, who practically threw her wine at her and scavenged up the coin she put down. After leaving for her room, she retrieved the note that Johann had brought her and stared at it again. It had made its way through the grapevine of people she was associated with to her. The parchment was covered in wide, unpractised script, crumpled from travel and her hands. It was stained in several places where the author had pressed too hard with the quill and ink had splattered across the page. For proof of sender, a long hawk's feather had been folded in with the letter. It was covered with edits and scratched-out sections, but got the point across. Jacqueline sat on her bed and read it for the tenth time.

_Dear__ ("Dear" was harshly crossed out, as though he had angrily changed his mind.) Jacqueline, _

_(The beginning is littered with discarded starts, most of them brusquer than the one he had chosen.) I hope this letter reaches you, and does not get intercepted by others. There is little I can safely say. I regret not seeing you before you left, and if this does reach you I hope that you are well._

_The general has betrayed me, as has my fath—(Here is where he pressed too hard, and the ink has blotted out some of the text.) –not expect any sympathy from you. The Old Man has passed on in your absence. The community here fares well, and Georges harasses me daily. __I__ (He crossed that out as well, with several rude, dark lines, and then corrected himself in bolded text.) __**we**__ anxiously await your return._

_Ratonhnhaké:ton_

Jacqueline rubbed her chin, wondering why he used his full name. Probably because most knew him as Connor. The news of Achilles' death was a bit of a shock to her—he had always seemed so invulnerable. But she could see through the polite letter; she had known Connor too long, and could tell behind the courteous façade, he was very upset with her, possibly even angry.

"Who's that from?" Léon asked curiously, leaning up to try and see the note from where he sat on the floor.

"A friend." Jacqueline replied absently, still thinking.

Léon wiggled his eyebrows. "Connor?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes."

"Ooh!" The boy laughed. "Is it spicy?"

"Léon!" Jacqueline smacked his head chastisingly. "No, it's not! Sometimes I wonder why I tolerate you…"

"Because I'm a lovable scamp?" Léon fluttered his eyelashes and pretended to wave a fan over his face.

"Because you stick more than a barnacle."

"Ha!"

Jacqueline observed the hawk feather and twirled it between her fingers. She knew she deserved his anger for leaving as suddenly as she had. After a few minutes of absently trailing the feather over her palm, she left her room to retrieve parchment and a quill from the bartender.

-o-

Connor was prepared to hunt down his dinner, his bow strung and quiver full of new arrows. And Bisou's, though the hound had become rather impatient and refused to spend much time with him anymore unless he had meat for her. The same could be said for Blanche, who was now getting along in years, and the old mare was more apt to spend time away from him unless feeding or grooming was in order.

Connor was angry with Jacqueline, yes. Or as angry as he could be, anyway. After Achilles' death was when the poisonous emotion had set in. He was frustrated with her, and his father, and Washington. He was frustrated that he had yet again drawn the short straw, and was left alone.

Steeped in his thoughts, he didn't notice Ellen approaching until she was almost upon him. "Connor, I've your laundry." She hitched a wicker basket up her hip.

"Oh," Connor blinked out of his venomous reverie. "Thank you, Ellen. You can set it inside."

"Right," She smiled brightly and reached into the pocket of her apron to retrieve a small envelope. "This came for you in the post today."

"Thank you." He accepted the letter and opened it. There wasn't much text on the page itself. The script was neat and cursive, though almost too small be read. There were a couple circular, rusty stains where a wine glass had been set. A white dove's feather fluttered out and landed at his feet as he read the short message.

_My dearest friend, _

_Our correspondence is not safe. Your letter reached me but I fear I am raising too much attention to trust any further post to slip through the fingers of the enemies I have provoked here. Even my allies I cannot completely trust yet. I will return before this time next year. Until then, expect to hear little from me. _

_Love from France, _

_J._

_P.S. I understand your anger. Please, forgive me._

Connor reread the note a few times. As always, no matter rash her actions, she managed to make him feel guilty for ever being upset with her. It was the first he had heard from her in over two years, and he admitted that it was disappointingly short. A few of her choice phrases such as, "My dearest" and "return to you" and "Love from" made something inside his belly and his heart flutter not unpleasantly. He folded the letter up again and tucked it into the front pocket inside his robes, making sure it was safe. He picked up the feather from the ground.

Ellen came out of the manor, her basket empty now of the folded clothes. "So, who's sending you letters, Connor?"

"Jacqueline is in Europe. She only replied to one I sent her." He answered simply, neatly fixing the feather in with the others on his bow.

"Oh! Love letters, then?" The seamstress winked and grinned dazzlingly. "Well, I'll not pry. Have a good day!"

"You as well." He called after, a bit embarrassed, but he would let her think what she wanted.

Bisou came trotting up to him, a surprise after the dog's recent behaviour. Connor knelt and rubbed behind her ears. The hound sniffed around him, settling on his shirt, where Jacqueline's letter was. She whined and sat, her tail making dusty waves back and forth.

"You are smarter than you let on." Connor observed, smiling lightly at the intelligent hunter. He stood and whistled, and the dog came trotting after to hunt with him, the first time she had done so since Jacqueline had left.

Later that day, Bisou curled up in a corner of her mistress's former room and quietly passed away.

-o-

_-I love love love the song I chose, because it's so fitting for this whole mini-chappie. Highly recommended song right there!_

_-Yes, if I'm doing my math right, Bisou was about 10 at this point, making her a fairly old dog for a large hound. Poor puppy. :(_

_-__**Review **__for letters across the ocean!_


	34. Friend and Foe

"_It seems that everyone has their own inexplicable fear to have nightmares about. We need nightmares to keep ourselves entertained, and fend off the contentment that we all fear and abhor so much." -Louis de Bernières_

_-o-_

"I want to see you fight."

Jacqueline sighed and broke off a piece of bread. Crumbs scattered across the table. She ate it and took a sip of wine. "No you don't."

After a few tips and general directions, Jacqueline had moved inland and west to find Richard L'Enfant. The anticipation of his attack loomed over her like a dark cloud. She had opted to stop looking—she knew how this would end.

So she was sitting in an inn, eating dinner and reluctantly tolerating her apprentise. She wouldn't admit it in a hundred years, but she liked having company. Travel became lonely.

"You're a trained killer, right? I want to see a trained killer fight. Girard never fought—he just _experimented." _Léon plucked a bit of bread away from her. "Locked away in that tower…it was anatomically educational, I suppose, but not very exciting."

Jacqueline shook her head. "What I do is more than fighting. Being part of the Brotherhood is who I am now. It is a cause for which I will gladly die."

"What cause?"

"Freedom." She answered simply. "Liberty for all people."

"But…" Léon was rubbing his chin. "By being bound in such loyalty to the Brotherhood, aren't you forsaking your own freedom?"

"My…" Jacqueline hesitated, actually brought up short by the question. It proved an opportune moment for her pause, for something across the room caught her eye. Three men sat at a table, glaring at her. Red crosses adorned their armour. "Léon, you may get your wish."

"What?" He followed her gaze. "Are they here for us?"

"Yes. When I move, you need to duck under the table and stay there. Do you understand?"

"But I want to—"

"_Do you understand?"_ She demanded, setting her wine glass down with a forceful _clink_.

The boy sighed. "Yes."

"Good."

One of the Templars shifted in their chairs, and Jacqueline launched across the room. She ran up to the first and stabbed him in the back of the neck. This made the other two jump to their feet and draw swords. The other patrons of the inn panicked, running this way and that, banging tables over and spilling ale across the floor.

Jacqueline ripped her own sword out in just enough time to block the incoming blade. The two steels clashed apart with a loud clang, the first of the cacophony to follow. Advancing on her, the Templar stumbled on a chair in his way. Seeing her opportunity, Jacqueline swung her sword into the gap in his armour between his helmet and shoulder plates, and drew it straight back toward her. He fell with a strangled scream, blood spouting like a fountain.

A deafening _bang _made the Assassin drop on instinct—the other Templar had a pistol, and was aiming it steadily. She kicked his knee in the wrong way and used the hilt of her sword to smash his head to the side. Her knee jerked up to meet his chin, and he dropped beside his fallen comrades.

"Check the others for orders," Jacqueline briskly ordered Léon, who was peering out from behind the table. "Quickly! Folded papers, seals, signatures, something that tells me what they were doing here."

He scuttled over to the nearest body and patted it down. From the inside of the man's chest plate he pulled a bloodstained piece of parchment. "Does this mean anything?"

Jacqueline plucked the paper from his hand. It was folded twice over, and had one line of sharp writing across it. At the bottom was the signature of her target in red ink. "I see."

"What does it say?"

"These men were never meant to live." Jacqueline walked to the back of the inn and tossed the letter into a fireplace that was smouldering. "It's my invitation."

"Invitation?" Léon followed her out into the evening, grabbing the rest of the bread and trotting up like a puppy. "That wasn't very inviting."

In the moonlight, the fresh flecks of scarlet across her cheeks paled by winter stood out dramatically. "It's just the beginning of my encounter with L'Enfant. He's made the first move. As the opposing force, it's only polite to retaliate in kind."

"What…what are you talking about?" Léon gave a short, confused laugh.

"Nothing. If you're going to follow me like a lost hound, I may as well teach you how to use a weapon." Jacqueline pinched the bridge of her nose. "Come. I've been very busy, though you may not have noticed."

"You _have_ seemed awfully distracted." He commented thoughtfully. "What have you been up to?"

"Unearthing allies."

The town they had found themselves in was in the mainland of the country. It was divided over a river Jacqueline didn't know the name of. She followed directions from a coded letter she had received three days previous, to a side street between a bakery and a tailor. She crouched and lifted a wooden trapdoor. A ladder led into darkness, which she promptly jumped into. Léon followed hesitantly.

At the base, Jacqueline picked her way through the tunnel by feel. During the nights where she let Léon sleep on the floor of her inn room, she would escape to establish a loose base of operations. There were several Assassin bases in France. The largest was in Paris, but Paris was still a good distance away. Unfortunately, the most prominent presence in France was that of Templars. Jacqueline was hoping to change that with the death of Christophe.

The floor slanted steeply down about twelve feet, and Jacqueline skated down the worn dirt with practised ease. "Watch out, Léon, there's a…"

"Ah!" The boy could be heard tumbling down the slope, and he knocked Jacqueline off her feet when he came to a skidding stop. "Sorry."

She helped him to his feet, and they continued walking. The path twisted and turned, still in utter darkness. They couldn't afford torches. Literally couldn't, there wasn't room in the current budget.

"Stop." Jacqueline said after encountering a door, but Léon bumped into her anyway.

"Sorry." He jumped back, and she heard him stumble and fall on his bum. She rolled her eyes and knocked four times on the heavy door.

A slot opened in the door to reveal small eyes and bushy red eyebrows. "Ah! Hallo!"

The corridor was washed with light. Johann, the owner of the Speckled Mare, was on the other side, beaming past his ruddy beard. Jacqueline bowed her head as she walked in. "Safety and peace, Brother."

"Safety and peace. Who's zis vittle vone?" The hefty German patted Léon, who was in comparison a toddler.

"My apprentise." She said smoothly. "Don't worry. He can be trusted."

The sanctuary was small and cosy, an emptied wine cellar all carpeted and decorated with Assassin banners to play the part. It was one of many similar tiny stepping-stones across the country that Jacqueline and the other Assassins hoped to use as the way to overthrow the Templar influence. The main room was stuffed with as many carrier pigeon cages, desks, papers, bookshelves and maps as could possibly fit. A few lesser recruits were crowded around tables, writing down recent contracts and talking amongst themselves.

"I want to train him to fight." Jacqueline continued, winding through the maze of the main room.

"Oh? Anysing in particular?" Johann queried lightly after them.

"He's been following me around. It's probably best if he knows how to stab things."

They entered the training room, a larger area occupied by the things one would expect from a training room. Jacqueline went to a weapons rack and pulled a shortsword off the rack. Léon accepted it when offered.

"This is how it will work. If you can land a single hit, I'll stop for the day. Does that sound fair?" Jacqueline unsheathed her sword, still smeared with blood from earlier.

Léon made the first move, a clumsy swipe that she deflected easily. He used the exact same technique a second time and got the same result. Deciding to try something different, he went for her sides, banging this way and that. All the while, Jacqueline spoke over the clashing metal.

"You hold the blade too delicately. Rely on it! It is the only thing standing between you and death if you are in a fight." She made her first offensive, a light downward swing that wouldn't have hit him anyway, but he dodged to the side. "Do not think of the sword as an obstacle to learn about or overcome—let it become part of you."

"I've held knives before!" He protested, sweating and panting. "This is a lot heavier than I thought it would be!"

That made Jacqueline laugh, for whatever reason. Their "sparring" session went on for only a bit longer before Léon called it off and flopped back on the floor, chest heaving. "Okay," He gasped. "You can do the fighting from now on."

After he recovered, they headed back out of the sanctuary through the dark passage. When they emerged into the city again, the sun was rising. The sky was a dim blue, the air still chill with the morning. "I suppose you're hungry." Jacqueline decided, pulling herself out of the trapdoor. "We should get some food."

"You can't do this alone, Jacqueline."

Léon's statement made her turn. "What do you mean?"

"You think you can take out Rousseau by yourself, and you can't. Whatever you might think, whatever you justified this with, it's wrong. Remember you can always call for help." He smiled, boyish and naïve. _"I'm _not really any help to you without combat skills. I think I'll go to Paris and find a job. It's time I did something with my life."

"Are you sure?"

He gave her a knowing look. "Don't tell me you've actually started to like having me around?"

That wasn't necessarily the case—although it was secretly part of it. Even so, she wasn't about to beg him for his company. "Well, if that's your decision, I won't stop you. Best of luck, Léon."

Léon turned away and started down the street. "_Au revoir, et bonne chance."_

-o-

The same night Léon left, Jacqueline's dreams were plagued. It started as a nightmare, a recurring one that had haunted her occasionally since her adolescence. It started on the _Aquila_, during a storm unlike anything earthly. Lighting cracked wickedly across the sky and the torrential rain left red marks on her skin. The thunder boomed so loudly as to shake the deck, such was the extent of this storm.

In some way, she would be knocked from the deck by a careless elbow to the ribs. It varied often; sometimes it was Georges, sometimes Achilles, but most often it was Connor. She would look at the face of the perpetrator as she toppled into the thrashing waves.

The water was always black as night, but some light hovered near the surface, a beacon to lead her up. Just as she could taste fresh air and the temptation of salvation, angry hands held her down by the shoulders and the arms. The faces of those she had killed would surge through the black water, blinding and furious, contorted by rage. Blaming, accusing eyes burned at her, forcing her away from air. In her terror, her mouth came open, and she felt herself drown until just before death, and she would wake.

But that was not how this turned. Just before Jacqueline hit the water, the dream dissolved, and she flopped back on a smooth, artificial surface.

Standing before her was a woman. Jacqueline had seen her before—there was no forgetting the shimmering white robes, the stiff black hair, the hooked nose, and the stern expression of a judge about to sentence a convict to death.

"You again." Jacqueline stood and stepped closer. "What do you want?"

"You are a foolish, arrogant child," The woman snapped angrily. "One would think you would learn to listen to simple instructions."

"What are you talking about? What instructions?"

"Of course you would not remember. I specifically told you to stay with him, to keep him on his path, but you did not _listen._" The woman cast out her hand, and a shimmering screen wavered into existence.

On it, Jacqueline watched Connor struggle with a member of his tribe. She recognised him—Kanentó:kon, the man who had visited the manor once. The pair were fighting, though it was silent. And in a moment, the struggle was over, and only Connor walked away. The screen vanished, leaving the glittering woman waiting for a reaction, and Jacqueline somber but still victorious.

"Be that as it may, Connor is a grown man. He can cope with and reconcile his own decisions, as can I. I need no guidance from you." Jacqueline scowled. "Now allow me to leave this…dream, hallucination, whatever it is."

The goddess sneered. "You do not understand the weight of your act—"

"I don't care!" The Assassin raised her voice and took another step in. To the woman's credit, she did not move back. "Your decrees hold no weight with me anymore. I'm beyond submitting to your threats and false prophesies. Be gone, phantom, and leave me to my sleep."

The woman glared at her, livid, but with a brisk sweep of her arm, Jacqueline was hurled back into her nightmares, to drown over and over until the sun ripped her from the black water.

-o-

_-I'm reluctant to write about Connor, because come on. That would be silly. We already know what he's doing—we've all played the game. He's currently in like Sequence 10 or so, meaning the missions are involving Washington and his village and things of that nature (Broken Trust, etc.). _

_**-Review **__for Precursors! _


	35. Life and Death

"_I'm bleeding out, so if the last thing that I do is bring you down, I'll bleed out for you." –Imagine Dragons, "Bleeding Out"_

_-o-_

The field was chill and dark. All the birds had flown to their nests, and the animals had retreated to their burrows. The summer night was punctuated by rustling choirs of grass and the light padding of footsteps in damp earth. The moon was full, a perfect white eucharis in the starry sky. The only scar upon the scene was the skeleton of a house, the charred black timbers pointing at the heavens like accusing fingers, and two simple wooden crosses. As Jacqueline stepped into the field, she drew her sword and let it hang loosely in her right hand.

"Hello, Assassin." The voice behind her was steady and confident. Jacqueline turned to face her opponent. Richard L'Enfant was tall and frankly evil looking. He had a trimmed goatee and a severe face creased from years of frowning.

"Hello, Templar." She greeted in kind.

L'Enfant drew his sword, and there they stood. The blades gleamed, twins, in the moonlight. "So, this is where we shall stand, yes?" He began to circle, and she moved with him to stay opposite. "I've heard much of you, Assassin, cutting your way through my associates, leaving a bloody trail across France."

"I did not expect you to remember me, L'Enfant, but you have proven me wrong." Jacqueline gestured at the place where they stood.

"Do not take me for a fool. I put the pieces together rather quickly, after some investigation of my own. You're that brat from the Sauvageot family, come for revenge, I assume."

"You would assume correctly. Did you think you would not face the consequences of your actions eventually?"

"Usually, when consequences find me, I swat them aside. A man such as myself has no time for the petty side of life. In fact, the only reason I'm facing you here is because you're an annoying insect who will not fly away until _swatted_." On the last, sharp word, he stabbed the soft soil with his blade.

"Your pride will be your downfall, L'Enfant. I will defeat you and avenge the deaths of my parents."

"Will you now? You're but a child. How many years of training and experience do you think I have on you? Fifteen? Twenty?"

Jacqueline set her jaw. "Tell me where Rousseau is and I will spare your life."

"Such arrogance. You really think I will be so easy to defeat? You toss your accusations around as though you could stand by them in a heartbeat. I suggest we place a bet, like my old friend Pascal, who I heard you have already reached."

"What are the constraints?" Jacqueline asked after a pause.

"They are simple. If you defeat me in our duel, I will tell you all you want to know of Christophe's location, and then I will die with honour. But…if I win, I will not kill you. I will take a limb of my choosing, and then send you off to tell your Assassin friends to quit this revolution of theirs. France belongs to the Order, and it will remain that way. Does this sound fair?"

"I accept."

The opponents shook hands and took their stances. Jacqueline dispatched his pose in the seconds they stood across from each other: L'Enfant was likely stronger than her and had the advantage of upper body strength, although she had the advantage of nimbleness and speed. He stood firmly and held his sword aloft, suggesting attacks to her arms and torso. He was left-handed.

The Templar took the first step, a solid pace forward, and raised his sword an inch. She also advanced and pointed her weapon. L'Enfant dashed the steels together experimentally, and the ringing sang out into the night. A few more ginger taps followed, pinging and scraping lightly. The atmosphere was electric, charged with adrenaline and anticipation and an underlying current of bloodlust.

Jacqueline made the first real strike, a straight shot to a gap in his mail, which he deflected with as much ease as she had Léon. As the duel picked up speed, they parried and bounced back and forth on their heels in the tall grass. Their swords now banged together, falling away and magnetising together again in a complicated flurry.

Though she had made the first move, she also took the first blow. A clean cut across her upper arm was the result of a slow defence. L'Enfant clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Sloppy."

Angry, she struck out at him recklessly. They were clumsy blows, but L'Enfant was genuinely taken aback and had to quickly parry to avoid having some fingers chopped off. A huge swing, straight down to aim at his shoulder, made her stumble forward when he sidestepped. Jacqueline roared in pain when he drew his blade across her back, leaving a long, deep cut from her shoulder to her hip.

The Assassin fell to her knees, biting her cheek to hold back tears. Blood flowed down her back, seeping into her stockings, soaking into her clothes. L'Enfant stood over her, shaking his head. "Ready to accept defeat?"

Jacqueline sucked in a breath. "Never!"

She hurled her sword at him and landed a scratch to his arm as he dodged. She yanked a curved hunting knife from her belt and lunged at him, the dagger glinting silver, faster than the eye could follow. Richard tried to deflect the fast blows, but settled on dodging instead.

Circling the Templar, her blade held out, crouched in the grass, Jacqueline realised she had fallen into her mother's shoes. The thought made her confident, but even so, she was still losing.

Richard struck aside a blow and, panting, declared, "Is that the best you can do?!"

Jacqueline realised he was toying with her. This was a game to him, a game she could not afford to lose. She blocked a swing at her neck, pulled her pistol from her belt and shot him in the chest.

-o-

L'Enfant laid in the grass, stuttering in disbelief. "That was cheating." He declared sourly, pacing away from her. "Treacherous snake."

"It was not. You never specified that the duel had to be won with swords." Jacqueline cast her hands out. "Now, I believe we had a deal."

"Very well, Assassin. Christophe resides in a fortress in the far north of this country, on an island known as L'Ilette. He is not I—he is retired, and elderly. He will wait for you to come and kill him. But I must ask, Assassin. What do you hope to accomplish with this task you have set for yourself?"

"I want revenge, as you said. It is time I achieved closure."

"Closure achieved by killing five men, and anyone who stands in your way. You think you're better than us? You're nothing but an animal."

"No more of an animal than you, L'Enfant." Jacqueline pressed her lips together tightly.

Richard scoffed, amused. Blood sputtered at the corner of his mouth. "I hope you find him, Assassin." He muttered. "I hope you find him, so he can tear you apart. By the time you reach your death, I hope you learn that determination does not mean victory. So go on, then. Do what you set out to. Kill me."

Jacqueline frowned down at him. "Tell me one thing, first. What was your role in the murder of my parents?"

He smiled cruelly, his eyes already growing dim from his fatal wound. "I was the man who laid the torch to the foundations of that hovel and burnt it to the foul soil it stood on."

"_Reposez en paiz."_ Jacqueline threw out her hidden blade and let it meet his throat. "Bastard."

-o-

"Now, hold still, please." The kind healer instructed. She dabbed bandages with a greenish salve and pressed them to Jacqueline's back.

The Assassin tightened her grip on the sides of the white-clothed medical table and spit ever swear she had learned on the _Aquila_. The salve in her newest wound burned like fire under her skin. When her back was securely wrapped up, the woman patted her shoulder. "Okay, my young friend. That should hold, but I'm afraid it's going to leave a scar."

"Thank you." Jacqueline said hoarsely, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. It had been a long time since she'd slept.

"It was my pleasure." The healer rinsed her hands in a basin of water. She was Johann's wife, a Frenchwoman with laugh lines and dark hair with streaks of silver. She was heavily pregnant, and had to waddle around the cramped room. Her name was Sou. "How did you get that nasty wound?"

"A duel." Jacqueline pulled on her camisole and then the long-sleeved red shirt she wore between layers.

"It must have been some duel!" Sou exclaimed. "Oh—I still need to tend to your arm."

Jacqueline sighed and stripped again. Sou dabbed the cut on her upper arm clean and bandaged it with the same stinging salve. "Yes, my opponent was very skilled. I suppose I won a bit underhandedly."

"Oh? How so?" Sou tied the bandage off and patted it with a smile, although Jacqueline grimaced at the pain.

"Well, it was a duel with swords and…I shot him." She admitted, a bit sheepishly.

Sou laughed heartily and rubbed the large swell of child that bulged under her apron. "At least you won. Ooh!" She flinched and looked down. "The little one's been very active recently."

"Oh…erm…" Jacqueline began dressing again, unsure of what to say. "How…far along…are you?"

"Just about ready now." Sou lovingly rubbed her pregnant belly. "Johann's been so anxious, but I'm just excited! Do you have children?"

The question took her by surprise, and Jacqueline blushed. "Oh, no, no. I've not put much thought into a family."

"Surely you've thought about it, though?" The healer packed away her supplies. They were in the infirmary section of the sanctuary, and the cupboards were packed with medical supplies that the various petty-officer-level recruits had brought in. "A pretty young woman like you must have some man on your mind."

Jacqueline coughed, embarrassed, and buttoned her cuffs. "I, ah…I don't think Connor is ready for children yet, either."

"Ah, but you have thought of it." Sou wagged a finger.

"Not…in depth. I cannot afford to bring children into the life I lead." She rubbed a bruise on her cheek. "Perhaps…eventually. When we have stopped hunting."

"Having children is the best thing to happen in your life. I have two wee ones already, twin girls, and they're a joy." The older woman beamed. "If you ever have doubts, take my word for it. You'll never regret it."

Jacqueline nodded and hopped off the table, cringing and holding her back. She bowed with one fist across her chest. "Thank you, _madame, _but I should be going."

"Leaving so soon?"

"My journey isn't over yet. There's still something I must do before I return home." She observed her blade, still stained rusty red, and put it back in its sheath.

"I left my home once, when I was about your age." Sou waddled here and there, cleaning up the supplies and straightening things. "My favourite saying is, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," because that's just how I felt. When I got back home, I looked at everything in a new light. That's when I married Johann, when I returned, because I realised something: I just couldn't be without him again. So make sure when you get back, you appreciate what you left behind."

-o-

_-I totally love the name Richard when it's French, because the "ch" is pronounced like "sh" and it's just lovely. _

_-So this chapter was pretty short, disappointingly so, actually, because the fight was originally combined with the last chapter, so fast update. _

_-I enjoyed the contrast between the fight in the first part and the more…gentle (?) section later with the expecting momma Sou._

_-__**Review **__for swordfights! _


	36. Dance with the Devil

"_You can be a king or a street sweeper, but everyone dances with the Grim Reaper." –Robert Harris_

_-o-_

The fortress was on an island. Jacqueline was forced to track down the _Aquila_'s crew, which took the longest portion of her hunt, as they had all gone their separate ways during the two years they had been in France so far. When she had them all in one place, she took the _Aquila _north, to an island called L'Ilette. It was a tiny spit of land off the northwestern peninsula, filled with rocky beaches and tiny bits of pale grass. Late-season seagulls pecked along the shores, and scattered when she jumped off the ship.

"Faulkner, it might be best to return to the mainland for supplies. I may be here for some time." She called up, pulling her hood up and muffling out the freezing wind.

"Naw, lass, already taken care of. We'll be waitin' here for ye. Good luck to ya!" He waved at her. The crewmates leaned over the edge and hung on the shrouds, also waving her goodbye and calling after her.

Jacqueline waved back, grinning, and watched the ship sail away southeast before vanishing into the mist of the evening. The fort she was heading towards was fairly nearby—in fact, she wondered why the _Aquila _had not been attacked. She approached the building, and turned her path a bit west to flank the fort and enter somewhere other than the front door. Before she could move much farther, though, a young serving boy came jogging toward her across the beach. She bristled, but he was unarmed.

"Jacqueline Sauvegeot?" He gasped, catching his breath.

"Yes…" Jacqueline answered suspiciously.

"Ah, good. Monsieur Rousseau has been expecting you. This way, my lady." The serf gestured for her to follow, and she did, after a moment of hesitation.

The fort's portcullis rattled open as the pair approached, up the dirt slope between hills of dark rocks rounded by centuries of ocean waves. Fresh salty water sprayed up at each wave, framing the path. Jacqueline could feel the eyes of the fort's guards on her, but kept her arms crossed and away from her weapons. The orderly led her through a few doors and up two flights of stairs.

The inside of the fort was silent. Their footsteps on red carpets were padded and hushed in the claustrophobic stone halls. She was led around corners and through passages, along the edge of a cathedral-sized hall until at last the boy stopped at a large door.

"In here, _mademoiselle._" He opened the door and let her in first, then followed and started ahead to continue leading her.

The room was a low, comfortable hall. A long dining table stretched down the way. At the end sat a man. Wrinkles of age were formed around his mouth and eyes. His hair was streaked gray, as was the modest beard he sported. He stood when she entered the room. A wolf the size of a mule looked up at her and yawned, exposing ivory teeth longer than her hand.

"Welcome, Assassin." Christophe Rousseau greeted, bowing.

"Rousseau." Jacqueline drew her sword and faced him, pointing at him with the steel. "I have come for your life."

"I know. You're the girl from all those years ago. The Sauvageot child."

"Then you know why I have come. Why I have killed four before you to reach this place."

"Yes. But before you kill me, I would rather like to have one last conversation. I'm an old man, you see, and when you get old you get lonely. I wouldn't expect one so young to understand. Please, sit."

Jacqueline watched him, confused and wary. "You're mad."

"Don't insult me, girl!" He snapped, and sat back in his chair. "Ease your bloodthirsty habits for one moment and have an intelligent conversation."

After a pause, she sheathed her sword and slowly sat across from him. A couple serving boys entered the room and placed bowls of soup before the two diners. They kept their eyes cast away and exited backwards. Jacqueline looked down. The soup was deep red with some green spice sprinkled on top. A wide array of silver was lined up on either side of the white china; several forks and spoons that shrank in size and a few different knives. She had no idea what to do with any of it.

"Now," Rousseau continued. He picked up the proper spoon and began eating. "Let's talk."

Jacqueline exhaled sharply and looked away, but met his gaze. "Why did you kill my parents?"

Rousseau scoffed at her behind a glass of brandy. "I was expecting something more interesting. Well, as you know, most of France is under Templar control. When we—they, the Order—start to get powerful, they get out of control, ironically. So when we learned that two retired Assassins were living in the middle of our sanctuary, we decided it would be best to be rid of them."

"You were prepared to kill a child just for that?"

"Ha! You really think we're monsters, don't you? I can see whomever trained you has instilled years of influence. Of course we didn't want to kill a child, especially Norman Durand. He always was a bit soft, a bit round on the edges. He managed to convince even I that we should allow you to live."

Jacqueline glowered at him, her hand tightening on her sword's hilt. The wolf saw this and growled fiercely, a large paw shifting forward to indicate it was about to stand up, and she quickly backed down.

"Oh, don't mind Furie." Rousseau commented lightly, resting a hand on its head. "He's quite tame, and fiercely loyal. You will get to know him quite well, in fact."

"What do you mean by that?" Jacqueline glowered at her soup, keeping her hands in her lap.

"I can't very well let him starve. You will take care of him once you've killed me, yes? He won't let any of those simple serving boys get near him." The Templar stroked the beast's head affectionately.

"You want _me _to take care of your hound?" Jacqueline wasn't sure whether to be honoured, shocked, offended, or all three.

"He'll love you unconditionally. You have my word." He clicked his tongue at the huge beast and pointed to her. Furie lumbered over to the Assassin, sniffed her, and reluctantly sat beside her.

"What…how is it that _size_?" She stared in horror at the beast, leaning away.

"Now, that _is _a story." Rousseau picked himself up out of his chair and shuffled to a chest of drawers. "I've come in contact with several powerful artifacts over my years of plundering and conquering. Once, I was exploring a vast desert in the far south when my faithful hound, just a pup then, ran away from me. When he returned, this was in his teeth, and he had transformed into something otherworldly."

The Templar held up a ring. It shone with a kind of inner light, cast tiny golden beams across the room. Jacqueline frowned, fading into her second sight. With everything else washed out in shades of gray and black, the ring glowed brightly gold-white with flickers of red.

"That is an unnatural artifact." She said warily, glancing at the mutated hound beside her.

"Yes, I know." Rousseau observed it proudly. "It gives me power, too. I see what will be, what was. I can look into the hearts of others and dissect their true intentions. It made Furie into a true warrior. _Magnificent._ Take it, won't you? As a last parting gift."

She had to admit that it was tempting. But even halfway to reaching out and taking it, she drew back. "Keep that thing away from me."

"Don't you want it? All this power?" Rousseau purred, waving the ring a little. "Pity to let it go unappreciated after I pass."

When she was about to deny him yet again, an idea struck, and she held out her hand. "You are right. It would go to waste."

Rousseau handed it over. It was warm and tickling, like feathers writhed on its surface. "I'm glad to see you have more common sense than your retired father. He was so…stubbourn, so willing to be the hand of _justice_ and _liberty_. He was much too idealistic for my tastes."

More serfs entered the hall, shuffling up to each of them and removing their soup bowls: one full, one empty. The second row of boys set a new plate in front of them and uncovered it to show a full lobster on Jacqueline's plate and a bloody steak on Rousseau's. More plates of other foods were placed along the table: potatoes and cabbage, loaves of steaming bread and pitchers of spiced mead, fruit pies, orange slices with chocolate and vanilla crème. One courageous boy had the task of giving Furie his food, and slid the ceramic bowl of meat across the floor to the beast.

Jacqueline sighed. "My father wasn't retired."

Rousseau looked up from cutting his steak and placing buttered potatoes on his plate. "Oh?"

"The day your garrison came to my home, he was…looking over a collection of papers. That just proves how effective your Order is, I suppose." She rudely stirred her drink with her finger.

"All the better that we eliminated them, then." He countered cuttingly. "Honestly, you Assassin types are all the same. You think you're automatically correct and that we are automatically evil. I like to think of myself as…open-minded. Revolution is coming, Assassin. I can taste it in the air. Can you?"

"Problems concerning taxes is hardly cause for revolution."

"You forget the power the Order has. We have operatives in very high places. And remember that little trinket," He nodded at the ring. "Gave me a good two decades of foresight. Luckily, I'll be long dead before I can watch this place be ransacked and raided. So, unless you have any other questions, I think I'll finish my last meal, and we can get this messy business over with."

"Did you know my parents?" She mumbled the question quietly, ashamed of asking it.

Rousseau nodded. "Yes. Long ago, before we had chosen our sides, your father and I were good friends. He was a determined man, and I can see he's passed that on to you. As for your mother, you and she are strikingly similar. You have her eyes, you know, and that same dark fire she always had burns in you."

For a moment, Jacqueline hesitated. "Why do you want to die?"

"No one _wants _to die, Assassin. However, humans often get a sense when it's time. Dogs run from their masters and die alone, and that's the difference between animals, and us. We rise to meet our fate."

Much of the food remained on the table. It seemed wasteful, but Rousseau made no move to beckon any servers.

After taking a deep breath, Jacqueline drew her sword and stood. Rousseau smiled wearily and drank the last of his strong brandy. He looked her in the eyes when she stopped stand in front of him. "Let's have it, then. The Devil won't wait forever."

In one smooth, strong move, she thrust her sword forward and nearly pinned him to the chair. "_Resposez en paiz, _Christophe_._" She muttered, watching him bleed out over the expensive rug.

After a long moment of staring at his body, she sat back in the chair with a long sigh, all the air leaving her body. Her hand shook lightly as she poured herself another drink and quickly threw it back. "It's done." She said out loud, staring at the ceiling. "That's it."

Taking a moment for it to sink in, she limply reached back and held her hair off her neck. Then she slowly, purposefully raised her sword behind her head and sawed the braid off. She tossed it aside, and the loosed locks fell around her face. The much shorter locks now hung just below her ears, and it felt good. Clean. Finished.

Jacqueline sat for a good few minutes, soaking in the kill. For a brief moment, she believed there was nothing she had left to do. But in a rush, she remembered her home. The Colonies, New York, Boston, the Homestead, and Connor—_Connor—_were waiting for her.

She stood and snatched the glowing ring off the table, tucked it down her bodice for safekeeping, and started toward the door. Furie followed obediently. He really was a huge animal, as tall as her neck at least.

"I suppose you're mine now." She pursed her lips at him, opening the door to leave.

He nudged her shoulder with his black nose, asking to continue. They walked back through the fortress. None of the posted guards stopped her. She heard some murmuring behind her for someone to retrieve Rousseau's body. The portcullis was raised, and true to his word, she strolled out unharmed. A mile away, the _Aquila _waited suspiciously at shore. It was icy cold in the whipping December winds.

When she reached the ship, she called up for a boardwalk to be lowered for Furie. The wolf trotted up and bounded onto the deck, making the nearby crewmates take a few steps back. "What in the blazes did'ja get up to in there, lass?" Faulkner exclaimed, eyeing the beast warily.

"Rousseau and I talked, mostly. And then I killed him. He gave me his hound to look after." She glanced at Furie.

"Aye, well, we best head back fer some extra rations with tha' thing aboard." He patted her shoulder, and took on that rare but fatherly smile that crinkled his eyes and pulled his whitening beard up on either side. "Ye did good, lass."

Jacqueline nodded once, thoughtfully. "Yes…now, let's go home."

-o-

_-And there we have it! We're back in the Colonies next chapter, people, which means…(drumroll please)…Connor! _

_-Soooo the closest visual comparison to a living human I can find for Jacqueline is a French actress named Roxane Mesquida. I have one of my favorite pics on my profile, but feel free to look her up anyway. Scroll a bit in Google Images, because the first row or so of photos kinda suck._

_-__**Review **__for emotional closure! _


	37. All Roads Lead to Rome

"_It's so many miles and so long since I left you, don't even know what I'll find when I get to you. But suddenly now, I know where I belong: it's many hundred miles and it won't be long." –Feist and Ben Gibbard, "Train Song"_

_-o-_

It was freezing cold on the _Aquila _during the return trip that lasted from December through February. Sometimes it snowed, and anyone who wasn't actively keeping the ship afloat huddled in the galley around weak gas lanterns. The washed-out world of winter grays did nothing for the crew's mood. Furie roamed the deck, unaffected by the biting winds, and proved hard to train into loyalty. Once, he ripped a poor bloke's trousers right off because there was a bit of dried meat in his back pocket. Needless to say, Furie was confined to the galley for the rest of the journey.

Jacqueline was kept warm by the fur that lined some of her robes, and she stayed bundled in her room as often as possible. The three months back to the Colonies felt like the second-longest three months of her life, right next to her first stowaway voyage.

A couple weeks before arrival, she was sitting in her cabin, her knees to her chest, and her cloak pulled around her. The puffy fur around the hood sat around her face like a cushioned halo. Furie was curled up beside her, chewing on a piece of rawhide.

"You'll like Connor, Furie." Jacqueline's breath made a plume of fog in the air. "He's very kind to animals, and people. Most everyone, in fact. You be nice to him back, now, you hear?"

"Does that beastie only understand French?" Thomas knocked on her open door and stepped in with a bottle of rum in hand.

"So far as I can tell, yes. What's that?"

"Thought ye'd like a bit of a pick-me-up." The lookout handed the bottle over.

"Shouldn't you be in the nest? We pay you for something, don't we?" Jacqueline took a nip from the bottle and handed it back. She shivered at the fire it sent down her throat to warm her freezing fingers. "Ooh! That's good. Are you glad to be going home?"

"Aye! Met myself a bonnie lass back in New York." He patted his chest proudly and rolled his eyes. "Not a snowball's chance in Hell she's waited fer me. But that Connor," He snorted and took another drink. "Lass, he'd wait fer ya 'till the bloody Lord Saviour Himself came down from Heaven."

They both crossed themselves at the blasphemy. "At this point, I'm sure it's because I'm the only woman he knows." Jacqueline gestured for the rum.

"Don' sell yerself short like that. The boy's head over heels fer ya. Ye remember that time we all went fer a swim, long time ago, and ya jumped in with naught but yer smallclothes on?"

Jacqueline laughed. "And he refused to even look at me! Poor Connor."

"To Connor!" Thomas lifted the bottle. "May he always remain naïve and in love."

They drank to that. Jacqueline remembered something, and from her pocket pulled the large, golden ring. Furie sniffed it over her shoulder. "I should take care of this."

"Whassit?" Thomas peered at it. "Curious lil' oddity, huh?"

"More powerful than curious. It needs to be disposed of so it may never fall into the wrong hands." She stood and walked out of her room, through the galley and up to the windy deck.

Snow flecked across her face like miniscule shards of glass. The wind howled, lamenting at the _Aquila. _A few sailors shuffled here and there, moving as much as possible to keep warm, leaving smoky trails of breath behind them. Jacqueline hurried to the cannons, not eager to stay above deck long. With a strip of leather, she tied the ring firmly around a small shot used for swivel cannons. Heaving the heavy iron up, she lurched to the edge and flung it over. The ring sank like a stone, dragged to the bottom of the Atlantic.

"What was so important ya needed t' drop it into Davy Jones' locker?" Thomas shivered behind her, teeth chattering.

"Something evil," She breathed into her hands. "And I hope to never see it again."

-o-

Connor was loitering in New York. Without the _Aquila, _travel by sea was slower, as he had to wait until another ship was available to the Homestead or else travel by land. It also gave him a break from the frontier, which only brought up very fresh memories of Washington and Haytham.

Eventually, he decided enough was enough. There were things to be done elsewhere, and it was time he took his leave. Leads on Lee's locations were trickling in and pinpointing him, which refocused Connor's determination.

When he made his way through the city to port, however, he was greeted with a surprising sight. The familiar ghostly sails and small frame of the _Aquila _rocked gently next to the slick boards of the wharf. Without thinking much into it, he simply went aboard and searched out Faulkner. The old first mate was sitting on the stairs to the upper deck, taking nips from a flask and marking down dates and locations in a journal warped by years of water. He looked up as Connor approached and grinned.

"Ahoy, cap'n!" He greeted boisterously. "Glad to see ye still kickin'!"

"You as well. Are you returning to the Homestead soon?" Connor inquired.

''Aye, just 'bout ready to cast off again. Ye'll find yer effects in th' galley, cap'n." Faulkner saluted, a bit drunkenly, and sat heavily.

Connor turned away to step down the chipped, wobbly steps to the galley. He magnetised to his room on old habit, navigating between the nearly empty barrels. When he approached the door to his cabin, he let his hand rest on the worn wood. There were faint shuffling noises behind the door.

Entering cautiously, Connor scanned the room for the intruder. She straightened up from leaning against the window and looked at him. A wolf the height of her shoulder was pacing the left side of the room.

She looked different, somehow. Her hair was hacked short, uneven and choppily hanging around her chin, and her eyes…there was something sad and dark in her eyes that hadn't been there when she had left, like a demon had taken hold in her heart.

"Connor." Jacqueline greeted coolly.

"Jacqueline." He replied in kind, though with an unintended condescending edge. "You have returned, then. How was your trip?"

She stiffened at his tone, and her blank expression twitched into an irritated one. "Do not pretend that you're not angry with me, Ratonhnhaké:ton." Her accent, normally light, had become very strong. "I know you better than that."

"Do you? I was under the impression that you enjoyed abandoning responsibilities, but perhaps you know me better than that." Connor's voice raised slightly. They had been slowly approaching one another, and now stood within an arm's length of the other.

Jacqueline visibly bristled. "_You_ abandoned _me _for your arse of a father. I wanted closure and I got it. You have no right to criticise me."

"You left without any word for _two years_." He accused. "What was I supposed to think?"

"You were supposed to think I was doing something without _you _for once." She poked a finger into his chest, glaring.

"That did not mean you had to leave the country with no warning or preparation!"

To Connor's surprise, Jacqueline swung her hand up to slap him. He caught her narrow wrist in one hand. She glared and tried with her other hand, which he also caught. Jacqueline held his gaze for a long second, her face contorted as she tried to remain angry.

"Why do you have to be so damn stubbourn?" She gritted out, wrenching her hands away.

As quickly as she pulled away, she pulled herself closer and kissed him, full on the mouth. He rested his hands on her waist, and they pressed together. The heat between them was frustrated but also relieved as they were glad to be back in the same place again. Jacqueline broke away for air and took a breath. She pecked his lips softly, once, and opened her mouth to say something.

Before she could, however, a huge blur of gray and white bounded in between them. It was the pacing wolf, forgotten of until now. His fur was whitish-gray with beige sprayed across his legs and his face splashed in black. He bristled at Connor and raised his front lip in a clear challenge for the attention of the only female present.

"Oh…this is Furie." Jacqueline said apologetically, ushering the animal back. "He was a…gift."

"That is quite an animal." Connor appraised, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm sure you two will get to know each other well. Right?" She seemed to ask the question to both of them. Furie seemed to glower at Connor, but acquiesced to Jacqueline and stalked away to lay in the corner of the cabin.

There was a pregnant pause, and Connor looked around. "Were you leaving for the Homestead?"

"Oh, yes." Jacqueline ran a hand through her hair. "Yes, I think it's time we went home."

"There is more I need to do. Charles Lee is nearly within my grasp. Once I make further preparations, I will return here to New York when he is scheduled to arrive and kill him."

Jacqueline nodded. "Not a moment to lose, then. Let's go."

-o-

_-I'm sorry this took so long but I was just so conflicted about how I wanted this chapter to go…sorry! I hope it was worth the wait. ;~; _

_-Seriously you do not even know the amount of angst I put into this chapter on my end. It's not even that great and it's really short and I'm sorry but headaches and tiredness convinced me to finally put it up. _

_-__**Review **__for angry kisses!_


	38. At the Ready

"

_-o-_

The stay at the Homestead was not a long one, and by the next week the Assassins returned to New York. Faulkner wasn't very pleased about having to ferry them around after the long voyage back to the Colonies, but did so in the hope that he and the crew could relax in New York.

On the _Aquila _on the way to the city, Jacqueline was sitting in the captain's quarters on the cushy bed. Furie was lying next to her, his large head resting between his paws. Both mistress and hound watched Connor, who was a quiet ball of apprehension, sitting at his desk.

"Connor," Jacqueline spoke up, turning his attention for only a moment. "Lee has nowhere to go with the French armada waiting. You have him this time."

"I have been waiting for this day for a long time." Connor spoke down at the desk.

"I know." Jacqueline went to him and leaned up against the desk. "I know as well as anyone. But straining your nerves to breaking point will do you no favours. You'll kill him, and this will finally be ended."

The conversation lulled, but she broke the silence before it could become uncomfortable. "What of your father?"

"He has been avoiding me since I threatened to kill him." Connor muttered. "But I suspect we have not seen the last of him."

"No," She agreed, musing. "I would be very surprised if he did not reappear before this has finished."

Connor remained silent, staring out the window at the end of the cabin as though the answers to his questions were written in the sky beyond. Jacqueline rested her hand on his cheek to draw his attention. All at once he stood—at this proximity she was reminded that she was yet a head and a half shorter than him—and held her shoulders firmly.

"Remain with the armada." Connor's expression left no room for argument. "It will not be safe on shore."

Jacqueline ignored his stony demeanor and scoffed. "I have not been one to fear danger, and you of all people should know this. More than ten years we've been friends, Ratonhnhaké:ton." She ran her thumb over the thin scar on his upper cheek; her voice dropped low. "And I will again follow you unto the breach."

Connor searched her face, still frowning in that way of his where he seemed to be perpetually irritated. "I…do not want to see you hurt again."

Dull orange flashes of candlelight and burning iron flickered behind Jacqueline's eyes at the mention, and though she shook the memories off, there was still a shadow of pain. "That's past now. Do not deny me my right to fight beside you, Connor."

"If Lee is there, then this is something I wish to do alone." Connor finally confessed, stepping away from her.

Jacqueline paused, then nodded. "_Très bien. _I will stay with the armada."

Connor placed his hands under her jaw, by her cheeks, and with the awkwardness that so often accompanied his actions toward her, bowed his head down to rest their foreheads together. Jacqueline placed her hands over his, felt the warm skin of his fingers and the smooth, short surfaces of his nails. It was quiet and still in the cabin then; the water outside sloshed apologetically against the hull.

The _Aquila _jerked forward, stopped suddenly by the dropped anchor. The pair in the captain's quarters were tossed about—Connor put an arm around Jacqueline's shoulders to steady her, not as thrown due to his sturdier frame. Furie, lying on his side on the bed as though it were his own, grumpily hopped off and padded heavily out of the cabin.

"Faulkner," Connor's nostrils flared in irritation.

"Two pounds he's drunk." Jacqueline added with a not unamused twist of her scarred lips.

Quietly and close together they left the underbelly of the brig and emerged into the sunny New York. The white-crooked crescents of seagulls circled overhead, nearly blending with the pale blue of the sky. Faulkner, at the helm, called out to the Assassins, quite sober: "Ahoy, cap'n! Fair luck in yer endeavors t'day!"

Jacqueline sourly tossed a couple coins to a smirking Connor. "He's a rotten helmsman, either way."

At the wharf, an excited Stephane Chapeau greeted them. "Hello Connor, welcome back. Good to see you again, Jacqueline."

"_Et toi, _Stephane." She nodded.

"Is everything in place?" Connor asked, not faltering in his stride.

"_Oui. _Layfayette waits for you in the tunnel beneath the city." There were nods exchanged, and their friend dashed away.

"Furie and I will meet you at the tunnel." Jacqueline patted the broad side of her canine companion. "He will attract too much attention in the city."

Connor touched her shoulder briefly in farewell. Jacqueline whistled to Furie, who accompanied her around the main city. Although she jogged at a decent pace, the beast easily bounded in long four-legged lengths a couple metres ahead of her. It made her feel weak in comparison.

Their path circled around the main part of the city to avoid most of the population, but eventually Jacqueline cut in east and made a beeline straight down the road to the entrance to the tunnels. Connor was waiting there, sitting on angled double-doors to what on the outside seemed a cellar. He stood as they arrived and opened the doors. Jacqueline entered first, and Furie barged in after her. Connor shut the door behind them, the hinges squeaking ominously, and for a moment they were shut in complete, inky darkness.

"Connor. Why is it dark?"

"The lantern was not left outside." Some muffled fumbling about, and a sudden growling yelp as a wolfish paw was trod upon.

"I think it's over here, Connor." A bulk of weight half rushed into her and lurched back again.

"Sorry."

"No—maybe it's not. Try the other wall."

More awkward shuffling. A searching hand, groping for the lantern, accidentally stumbled into Jacqueline's chest and got half-seriously smacked away for its troubles. Eventually, after a bit much bumbling around, they located the lantern and lit it. The flame flared to life and took on a yellowish hue when the tiny window was shut.

"Which way do we go?" Jacqueline stepped cautiously to the edge of the light.

"I was given directions. Stay close." Connor started ahead, holding the torch aloft. The woman and beast followed close, as instructed, competing to keep closer to the light.

Above them somewhere, a fiddle was playing an upbeat tune. Footsteps, both theirs and not, echoed through the halls and over their heads. Water sang a lonely, dripping tune nearby. Jacqueline stepped in a small puddle, and was unpleasantly surprised when her foot sank six inches into the mud. The brick walls that supported the tunnels were chipped, and in places a few bricks had come out entirely, leaving only mortar skeletons. Furie pounced around the small rooms and wooden beams to snap up greasy rats that wandered too close. A drop of slimy water dropped down the back of Jacqueline's neck, and she immediately tossed up her hood.

After a few dim corners, the group came upon Chapeau and Layfayette, whispering hurriedly in French. Jacqueline snatched bits and pieces, words like "king", "future" and "successor", but the men stopped as soon as they approached and the conversation was lost.

Layfayette looked up first, his pointed chin and pointed nose pointed high, the white wig slightly askew. "Connor!" He went to hug the Assassin, but a stern look made him balk. "This tunnel will take you into the military district."

"And the Admiral?" Connor inquired lowly.

"He waits for you to light the signal—and then the strike begins."

"And we will be there as well." Chapeau added with an encouraging glint of a butcher's cleaver.

Jacqueline rested a hand on Furie's head. "We will find you once the strike begins." She touched Connor's shoulder and gave him a reserved smile. "Good luck."

In response, to her surprise, he took her hand by the wrist and pressed his lips to her palm, briefly, and immediately stalked away through the tunnel. Chapeau snorted and looked at Jacqueline, who was surprised but a bit pink. Catching her friend's look, she pushed his shoulder amicably. "_Allons-y._"

-o-

_-Did anyone order a super ultra short chapter of shame? No? Well, have one on the house._

_-This chapter was a bunch of stuff I wrote, deleted completely, rewrote, rinse and repeat. It never actually was planned to be the next mission, but that's sort of how it happened. _

_-__**Review **__for cute stuff I guess!_


	39. All's Fair in Love and War

"_Love is like war: easy to begin but very hard to stop." -H. L. Mencken _

_-o-_

The ships waited in the bay, quiet and unsuspecting. Night had fallen over New York, and the darker outlines of the buildings were silhouetted against the lighter bluish-gray of the sky. A breeze startled up and made the wood of the ships creak in the night. Voices muttered in French here and there, and eyes were turned up to the dark tower that would light at any moment.

Jacqueline was leaning forward against the ship's side, her arms folded on the sturdy rail and her legs crossed behind her to prop her up. She scanned the city, listened to it murmur, and waited.

"Quite an accomplishment, no?" Stephane asked, joining her vigil. "An amazing city."

"That's an optimistic viewpoint." Jacqueline glanced at him. They spoke in French, and it now felt more natural to her than English. "It has its flaws, some that I've been all too familiar with."

"But that is every city." He shrugged back. "Perhaps this one can be better. We came here to change the world, and so we have."

She licked the scar on her lips, an old habit she'd not gotten over. "Sometimes I wonder if what we are doing is justified. Is it our place to determine what is right for the world?"

"Maybe. If not us, who? Would you rather the Crown, or those we fight to take power?" Stephane raised his eyebrows at her. "If nothing else, we shall be the lesser of two evils."

Jacqueline yawned and scratched the side of her nose. "Even so, we aren't very much better. They kill; we kill. We kill because they kill and vice versa, and so it goes." She made a circular motion with one finger. "When will it end?"

Stephane smirked and nodded. "You are an interesting woman, Jacqueline, asking questions like that. Connor is a lucky man."

She ignored the last statement. "Can you answer me, though?"

He sighed. "War is in our nature. I suspect it will never end."

Lying next to them, Furie lifted his head and swivelled his ears toward shore. What he was listening for it was uncertain, but it was a focused and oddly sudden enough action to draw the attention of the conversing pair. For a good minute they watched the wolf, which didn't watch the shore but only listened in the direction of it. Eventually he stood; the gray fur on his back bristled up in anticipation. Jacqueline felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle down her spine, and she also looked to shore as though expecting to see something.

"Do feel that, too?" She breathed, staring out at the city. "Electricity."

Hardly before the words left her mouth, the signal fire flared to life. "That's the signal." Stephane straightened up. "The armada will be firing any—"

The ship lurched as the cannons went off in succession, followed by the ship to their left. Jacqueline staggered and grabbed onto the rail. She watched a few of the buildings on shore burst and crumble into piles of bricks and mortar, furnishings and people fall out of their homes. The ships had been drifting closer to shore and were now nearly close enough to dock.

"Furie, come." Jacqueline drew her sword and vaulted over the edge of the ship to land on the pavement. Furie leapt after her, landing with a heavy thump.

A few disoriented guards stumbled around a corner in front of her. Seeing her, they didn't assume she was part of the siege due to her gender. But when she ran at them, sword glinting in the fire of the burning buildings, they readied a firing line. Too late, they scattered when she began cutting through them.

"Stephane!" She called over her shoulder. The Frenchman was swinging his cleaver with more skill then she had last seen. "What do we do?"

"Push through the city!" He exclaimed. "Give Connor as much time as we can!"

She nodded and jogged forward, only to be thrown back by the house next to her being struck by cannon fire. Bricks rained down on her, and she threw her arms up to shield her head. When the chaos faded, she looked up to see a city that had transformed in seconds. Smoke clouded the streets ahead of her, and she could hear guns going off like a deadly chorus.

Jacqueline ran through the smog ahead, keeping her sword drawn. The smoke made her eyes water and burn. A redcoat slammed into her, panicking. She thrust her sword blindly and felt it hit meaty flesh. The dead weight sank against her, and she moved on.

She and Furie pushed out into an area that was less smoky, a small square. Another round of cannon fire hit, sending explosions along the neighbourhood. "I need to find Connor." Jacqueline coughed heavily.

"Oi! You!" An officer pointed her out, and his squadron rushed at her.

"Furie." Jacqueline ordered, bending double to cough some more. The smoke was more than smoke—it was tiny bits of dirt and grit and gunpowder getting in her lungs. She listened to the Redcoats get torn apart, screaming, growling, cloth ripping, guns going off in futility. When Furie came back to her, his head was smeared in scarlet.

That was the last she saw before she blacked out. When she woke up, she touched the throbbing back of her head and felt her hair matted in blood. Assuming she was hit by a piece of architecture, she stumbled up and started off. She'd only been out for maybe a minute, as the siege was still very much in action.

"We need to find Connor." She repeated to herself, and started running. Furie ran with her for about a block before suddenly lunging in front of her and stopping.

"Move!" She waved her hand angrily. "I need to find him!"

The wolf raised a lip, the bridge of his nose wrinkling when he growled. When she thought he was going to attack her, he only laid down on his haunches and rested his head back on his shoulder. Jacqueline eased toward Furie, hoping she interpreted his direction correctly, and hesitantly put a leg across his back.

He stood immediately and launched off, bounding through the ruined street with as much ease as a spider on a web. Jacqueline yelped and leaned forward to avoid the cutting, bitter wind. She clenched her fingers in the rough fur between his shoulder blades and prayed she could hold on long enough for them to reach Connor. When she was able to open her eyes, she could see the city flying past them. Furie no longer needed to jog to keep up with her sprint, and she realised that if he ever wanted to kill her, it would be too easy.

A small, giddy chuckle came from her, cut off when Furie jumped a pile of debris. The adrenaline high made her feel as though she could run miles. Her good mood vanished when she came to a halt in a small garden. Furie waited patiently while she fumbled off of him and hurried to the crumpled, robed body that lay next to a table.

"Connor! Connor…" Jacqueline, for a few terrified seconds, believed him to be dead. Blood trickled from his mouth and stained most of his robes. There was some grievous, ambiguous injury beneath his robes. When she turned him over onto his back, she could hear faint breathing. "Oh, Connor, love, come on. I can't lift you myself, are you awake?"

"…Yes," Came the eventual reply. "Lee, he…"

"It doesn't matter now." She helped him stand, letting him lean on her. A cold drop fell down her face and she angrily wiped it away. "We need to get you help."

"My father…" Connor wheezed, gesturing weakly with his hand.

That was when Jacqueline saw there was another body in the garden, face down. She looked away. "You need medicine. Furie will take you to the armada. I'll meet you there."

Connor didn't protest, likely—and correctly—assuming that his condition was too serious to be prideful. He slumped onto Furie's back and weakly held on. "Take him back, carefully." Jacqueline told Furie. The wolf turned and trotted out of the garden, then vanished into the smoke.

When they were gone, Jacqueline looked back at Haytham's body. "You got your just desserts, Haytham. I could not have picked a better fate for you." She spat toward the body and left the garden, scowling.

-o-

Connor jerked awake from dim dreams, nightmares of swimming darkness that melted away before his memory could reach them. He looked around his room, not moving his head. Jacqueline sat next to his bed in a chair, writing in a journal. Having apparently not noticed he'd woken, he took a moment to watch her. She anxiously scraped a fingernail across her bottom lip, scratched something out and continued writing. He found there was something humbly lovely about her that drew him in, like a moth to a flame.

She glanced up at him, just a customary glance, and did a double take. "Oh, you're awake, thank God."

"What happened?" Connor groaned and attempted to sit up in bed.

"How much do you remember?"

He strained his memory of New York. "My father…Lee was not there."

Jacqueline closed her journal and set it aside. "I won't pry into what happened. The siege went smoothly, or as smoothly as it could go." Her voice was forced into almost singsong lightness as she tried to make light of his killing his own father. "Here, drink."

Connor accepted the cup of water she offered and drank it carefully. "Thank you. How long…?"

"A few days. You were badly injured, but have been recovering well." She touched his cheek and smiled.

Waking truly now, he looked closer at her. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and her movements seemed to take energy from her. "Have you been sleeping well, Jacqueline?"

She stopped and drew back from him. "Yes."

He almost smiled, almost. If nothing else, he could tell immediately when she was lying. "I will be fine now. You should rest."

Jacqueline grimaced. "_Trés bien._ Just…call if you need anything." She reluctantly left the room, leaving the door cracked open.

Connor sat up a little more, ignoring the ache in his middle. He glanced to the side and saw that she had left her journal behind. Morals inly struggling, he cautiously picked it up and scanned through it. Of course she wouldn't leave it unprotected—it was all in French, and probably coded besides. He set it back, grateful.

Steeling himself, he pulled out of bed and staggered to his feet. Connor refused to be bedridden for long, and though he was grateful for Jacqueline's care, he wanted to leave the Homestead again to continue tracking Lee.

But when he opened the door to leave his room, he came face to face with Jacqueline, who had her arms crossed and raised an eyebrow at him. Furie lurked behind her, his large head level with her small shoulder. "Good try, Ratonhnhaké:ton, but I know you too well."

"I am not dying." He insisted. "I have to find Lee again."

"No." She gently guided him back into his room. "You'll kill yourself if you try fighting anyone now."

Connor put his hands on her shoulders to stop her. "Jacqueline. Enough."

She did stop, but the expression on her face made him falter. It felt like he had genuinely insulted her. "You almost died, Ratonhnhaké:ton. I won't have you hurting yourself again."

It touched him that she cared, but Jacqueline had always been one to be wary of his actions. "I have suffered worse than this."

Jacqueline sighed huffily and leaned up to kiss him. It was a quick peck that quite suddenly turned into something deeper as they pressed together slowly but surely. Connor felt himself moving backward, lost his balance against the frame of his bed, and stumbled backward. The ache in his abdomen spiked, and he grimaced, effectively killing the mood.

"Oh," Jacqueline stepped away from him like he was a venomous snake, clearly embarrassed. "Sorry, I just…"

"It is nothing." Connor insisted, cursing himself for showing weakness.

Seeming a little hesitant, she met him again by leaning down, then carefully straddling him. He balanced her there, trying not to notice that her leg was pushing into the wound in his abdomen and instead focusing on that fact that she tasted like oranges and wine though her lips were chapped, and the wicked knot in her hair despite its short length, and the cool-warm feel of her fingers through his hair as she pulled out his ponytail, and the startling chill of tears as she cried for some reason he would never hope to comprehend.

It was all a little dizzying—the blood loss he had sustained likely was not helping—but he stayed sane, somehow. They both did. And in the black-blue early morning, they were consumed by fire.

-o-

_-Skepticism, bleh, not sure of this, but whoo! Finally, right? Ha, I led you guys on for soooo looong before this went down, but I love you all so much it hurts. :D _

_-Sorry for so many short chapters lately, this was the reward for your guys' beautiful patience with me and my abysmal update irregularity and brief chapters! _

_-__**Review**__ for love and war!_


	40. Find Me

"_You see, I'd never stopped to wonder why it was that millions of boys all over creation weren't seeing her and instantly falling in love with her, worshipping her body and mind and soul and spirit as I did. It never occurred to me until this precise moment that maybe lots of boys wouldn't have thought she was gorgeous. Maybe she only seemed so gorgeous to me because - and this is the shocker - her face came alive when I walked in front of it." -Author Unknown_

_-o-_

A beam of harsh morning sunlight speared through Jacqueline's eyelids. Her eyes opened slowly, lazily to look at the wall beside her bed. Her hair stuck up around her head in disheveled loops and tangles. Beside her, Connor was still asleep. He looked very peaceful, the frowning creases of the day smoothed away by sleep. His hair, untied and loose, was splayed across his face. Jacqueline gently brushed some away from his freckled cheeks and smiled.

Furie trotted into the room, big paws thumping against the floor. He sat next to the bed and rubbed Jacqueline's shoulder with his cold nose. She batted him away and yawned. The wolf snorted grumpily, shook himself out, and left the room again.

Jacqueline stirred around a little, trying to get comfortable again. Beside her, Connor breathed out in a sigh and blinked awake. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." She apologised.

"Good morning." Connor's voice was a little raspy from sleep.

Jacqueline smiled. "Good morning. This certainly makes for an interesting day, doesn't it?"

"It was unexpected," Connor spoke carefully, clearly choosing his words with great prejudice. He cleared his throat. "But my feelings for you have not changed."

"Then I don't see this as being much of a problem. Unless events suddenly take a turn, we can continue like this. Right?"

In response, Connor leaned in and kissed her forehead. He stroked a hand thoughtfully through her short hair. "Why did you cut this?"

"I don't know." Jacqueline touched his hand. "Suddenly…I just couldn't stand it anymore." She trailed her fingers over his cheek, down his neck to rest on his shoulder. "What happened with your father?"

A cloud passed over his face. "I would…prefer to not say here." He didn't elaborate, and didn't need to. Jacqueline didn't pry, instead running her thumb back and forth over his chestnut skin.

He touched one of the many scars on her right arm, the one shaped like a whirl. She shifted away, but he stopped her. "Do not hide. Scars are the mark of a warrior."

"It's not the scar that repulses me; it is the memory. One man I hunted gave me a new _memory_." She turned to show him the long slice from shoulder to hip where L'Enfant had struck her. "He and I dueled, quite magnificently, I should add."

Connor traced the long scar with his calloused fingers, and she shivered. "Did he suffer?" He mumbled.

"Yes." She lied, and turned back to face him. "We should leave this room at some point."

"Yes, we should." Connor agreed. He sat up and reached for his loose hair. The only part still tied was the braid near the front. When he turned to get out of bed, Jacqueline covered a giggle with her hand over her mouth. Connor looked back and raised an eyebrow.

"Your, ah, your back…oh, damn. I hope that doesn't hurt." She gestured at the long red marks down his back in the pattern of her nails. "Sorry."

"It is nothing." Connor shrugged a shoulder, but she could see even from behind that he was wearing a small, proud smile.

Furie barked from outside the manor, making them both look to the door. "I'll get him," Jacqueline sighed, getting out of bed for the second time that morning, with the exception being that she put on actual clothing the second time. "I knew from the start that beast would be nothing but trouble."

Getting dressed, she faltered when she noticed Connor staring at her. "Something the matter?"

He seemed flustered. "No," Then, a bit more reserved, "You are very beautiful."

Jacqueline unexpectedly flushed. She suspected that she would receive little personal attention in public, knowing Connor, but in private he was charmingly awkward. Almost like he wasn't sure what would flatter her, and was winging it a bit to experiment. Not that she was particularly experienced with the opposite sex, either. She just happened to have the upper hand as a given. It was an odd dynamic, but was working so far.

Smiling, she gestured to the door, pulling her overcoat up her shoulders. "I should go see what Furie's found...I'll be right back."

When she had looked into Furie's ruckus—which was only a hare, dead by the time she reached the garden—Jacqueline returned to the manor's kitchen. Connor was there, drinking something from a cup and looking out the window. They glanced at each other. Jacqueline took an orange from a nearby basket and began plucking at it with her fingernails.

"Where is Lee?" She asked quietly.

Connor's gaze flicked her way but didn't linger as he touched on a more sensitive topic. "I believe he is arranging my father's funeral."

This made Jacqueline hesitate. She knew that Connor and Haytham had not known each other for very long, and for that matter had something of a strained relationship, but were blood nonetheless. Connor was outspoken about his opinions but careful about his feelings for specific people. So Jacqueline trod carefully around her next line of inquiry.

"Will you attend?" She murmured, peeling a string of white vein from her orange.

Connor waited a moment before responding. "No. Not unless I find Lee there."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, I know you weren't on the best terms with Haytham, but…perhaps now would be the time to reconcile with him…"

"We said what we wished to. We made our choices and now he is dead. I do not want to go to a funeral held by Charles Lee." Connor responded, a little sharply.

Jacqueline pressed her lips together and focused on her orange. "Hm."

Connor reached over and covered her hands. "Will you help me kill him?"

She smirked briefly. "Yes. I'll help you, as long as you promise not to do anything stupid." She looked up at him. "I won't let you kill yourself trying to get to Lee."

"We will leave for New York soon, then, so he will not escape again." Connor decided, straightening up.

"Connor," Jacqueline said firmly. "Promise me."

He glanced at her, but didn't meet her gaze. "I promise."

"Thank you." She tossed the orange peels away and brushed her hands off. "If we leave for the city, then let's leave in two days."

"Why? If we leave no we could make it to the city by sundown." Connor frowned.

"Well, yes, but you should rest a little more before you go running back into danger. Also," She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered quickly in his ear, standing on her tiptoes to reach. His cheeks went a little red, and he put his hands on her waist. "That's why."

Connor cleared his throat and nodded. "Very well. We will leave in two days."

"Don't pull that stoic act with me, Ratonhnhaké:ton, I know you far too well." Jacqueline smiled and pressed their lips together.

Connor responded wholeheartedly, deepening the kiss. Jacqueline backed up to the table for something to lean against, making a kind of humming noise in the back of her throat. She shifted up onto the table and ran her fingers through his hair, wrapped her legs around his hips. They broke apart, and Connor turned his head to plant kisses down her neck.

"Wait, wait," Jacqueline laughed breathlessly, pushing him away slightly. "Save it for tonight, love. I have to do a few things today, and that line of thought is going to keep us indoors." She pecked his cheek, grabbed the remaining crescents of her orange, and strode outside the manor.

It was a fine spring day, filled with the sounds of birds whistling and cicadas buzzing. Lingering dew from the morning added a dash of humidity to the air. Furie stalked out of the house behind her, sullenly shadowing her on her path through the community. She had a goal, and though she was apprehensive, she wanted to see it through. It took her no time at all to find the right building: the whitewashed, kindly attended-to church. The folks on the Homestead were not very strict, but were quaintly religious. She instructed Furie to wait outside, and cautiously entered the hallowed hall.

The air inside was quiet and contained. Though mostly empty, a couple people sat in the pews. It was not as she had last seen it, dilapidated and abandoned. It was plainly furnished and cleaned, simple, to match the living style of the people who attended. At the first pew in the left row, Father Timothy sat and read the Bible. Jacqueline approached him warily, like he was a wilder animal than a rabid dog.

He noticed her and looked up. His smile was kind, and his voice low so others could pray in peace. "Miss Jacqueline. I must say, I am a bit surprised to see you here. I was not aware you were a daughter of our Lord."

"I…was Christian, once, and since I have no better arguments, I believe I still am." She sat beside him and held her hands in her lap. "But I came here to ask you something specific."

"Anything I can answer, my child, I shall." Father Timothy held out his hands, palm out, in acceptance. "What do you need to know?"

"Now, I have not…studied the Holy Book, precisely. But is there perhaps any mention of a mysterious woman anywhere?"

"There are many women in the Bible. Is there any more you could tell me of her?"

"She would be stern, or perhaps slightly malevolent. She wears white robes and a silver…tiara, or diadem." Jacqueline put her hands to her forehead to mimic what she had seen in her dreams. "Perhaps she is a prophetess?"

"Hmm…an interesting query. There are several notable prophetesses. Anna, who prophesied about Jesus in the Temple of Jerusalem. Deborah of Israel, and Hannah, the mother of Samuel. Do any of these sound accurate?"

"I am not sure." Jacqueline knew that none of those women could be whom she had seen, and this inquiry was only making her feel quite mad for even thinking that religious figures were speaking to her.

"Why do you ask?" Father Timothy questioned mildly. "It seems a curious question out of the blue."

She hesitated. "Would I sound mad if I said she had come to me in a dream and called me the daughter of Eve?"

Timothy gave a light shrug. "Many believe that the Lord has chosen them. You would not be so unique for thinking such. I find it intriguing, however, that unlike others who have told me that God had chosen them to do his will, your messenger is a nameless woman."

"It sounds very odd, but she spoke very specifically to me, and seemed to always know what I was feeling though I had never confided to anyone."

"Likely only your mind playing tricks on you. I would pay no heed, but I am no doctor. Perhaps see Dr O'Callaghan if you're very worried. Now, is there anything else you need of me?"

Jacqueline sighed. "No, I suppose not. Thank you, Father."

-o-

Two mornings later, Jacqueline was sitting in a bath she had drawn, idly tracing the scars on her legs. The water sloshed quietly in the room when she moved. She submerged her head, and when she surfaced again, she heard movement in the bedroom through the wall. Connor was up and about. At first she brushed it off, but then she heard the familiar sound of a hidden blade being unsheathed.

"Connor?" She called, frowning. "Is everything well?"

"Yes." Came the quiet response.

Even so, she left the bath and hurried into her room. Connor was sitting in front of a basin of water, back to her, calmly shaving his head. He ran the blade over his scalp, shadowed by his free hand, to trace the path of a strip of hair down the middle of his head.

"And I thought my hair was short." Jacqueline smirked, sitting on the bed next to him. "What are you doing that for?"

Another run across his head with the knife. It made a faint scraping sound when it dragged across the skin. Jacqueline could see that his mood was a brooding one, so she was quiet while he spoke.

"I see now why ours is an eternal war. For each piece taken from the board, another is placed upon it." He picked up a small bowl with crushed berries inside. "Back and forth we go. Across the world. Across the ages. Some days mine feels an impossible task. But I cannot afford to be consumed with doubt. The people need us, now more than ever. I must stop the Templars. I will kill Charles Lee."

Three vertical lines of red on each cheek from the berries. Connor picked up his robes and dressed. Already clothed, Jacqueline observed the bowl of red paint. Connor gently took it from her hands, put two fingers in, and made two horizontal lines on each of her cheeks.

"Now we will go to war."

-o-

_-To __**Alessandra, **__since I can't PM you anonly—I don't like putting smut into my stories. I think it subtracts emotion rather than adds. You want AC smut you can write your own, don't look for it here. That said, I'm a bit shite at writing it, so it wouldn't be worth it anyway. _

_-I looked back on some of my earlier chapters, and I realised that (gasp) I've actually made Jacqueline develop as a person! :o _

_-Well anyway I managed to cram some fluff in there after another bitch of a wait. ._. I hate to say it but this story is coming to its latch batch of chapters. I don't know how many are left but it's probably not gonna be a lot. _


	41. Last One Standing

"_We must be killers; children of the wild ones. Killers, where we got left to run?" –Mikky Ekko, "We Must Be Killers"_

_-o-_

The crowd was surprisingly large. The night was balmy and the air electric. Jacqueline sat in the shadow of a window outlet, leaning against the shingles and observing the pre-funeral arrangements. Charles Lee was stirring below, his greasy form outlined against the whitewashed house behind him. A rifle with extra sights was propped under Jacqueline's arm, loaded and ready. Her skill with long-distance shooting was minimum to average, and she preferred the bow, but this way there was little room for error.

Sighing, she removed a tin from her pocket and put a pinch of tobacco in her mouth. It didn't feel the same as her pipe did, but it helped stop her hands from shaking. Below her, the crowd was quieting down to listen to Lee speak. Jacqueline shifted the rifle into a better position, being careful to keep it hidden in the small shadow of the outlet.

Lee began speaking. If nothing else, his loyalty to Haytham was respectable. His speech was honest, and would have been moving if he were anyone else. A few sentences in, Jacqueline watched a figure in white shoulder his way through the crowd. The startled mourners parted in his wake, and Lee stopped talking to focus on him. While the Templar was distracted, Jacqueline propped her elbow on her knee and levelled the crosshairs on Lee's grimy head. She didn't want to kill him, but would if he made a move toward Connor. Her job was support, cover from another angle.

Caught, her fellow Assassin was shoved toward his rival. One of the men behind him swung a pistol to the back of his knee, bringing him down. Jacqueline bristled, but held her fire. The two exchanged words, Lee yelling with such rage that Jacqueline could actually hear him across the square. The guards pulled Connor to his feet and turned him to face where he had entered.

A chill went down Jacqueline's spine when Lee pointed directly at her, crouched on the roof. Seven shots rang off, one of them from her rifle.

The _boom _the gun made sounded like an explosion in the relative silence of the rooftops. The recoil set her back on her rear end; her ears rang with tinnitus from the shot. Smoke bloomed up in front of her, and when she waved it away, saw an unfortunate redcoat had intercepted the bullet in the confusion.

Guards positioned on the rooftops around her began heading in. "_Merde._" Jacqueline ditched the rifle and slid backwards down the roof, landing with a huff in the back garden of the house. Holes popped in the dirt around her and pinged off the pavement as the guards continued shooting at her.

A bullet clipped through her shoulder; she knew, felt the cloth of her robe tear into the fresh hole and billow in a reverse crater of white and red on the other side. A yell of surprise and pain, dulled by adrenaline, escaped her mouth. When she got up to run, another shock of pain zapped up from her leg, like electricity up her spine. "Ah!" She held the wound and put two fingers in her mouth to whistle. Furie bounded from his hiding place in an alley, momentarily surprising the guards into a brief cease fire.

"Come, Furie. We must help Connor."

The pair dashed through the space between buildings and emerged on the main road. Now Jacqueline noticed her smaller wounds from the initial attack: a scrape here and there, a gouge in her calf where a bullet had grazed through the flesh, splinters of ceramic in her hands that had lodged there when she had slowed her fall off the house, a slight panging in an ankle that had been badly landed upon.

Jogging the short distance toward the square, Furie bounded into the throngs of bristling soldiers, keeping them distracted. It turned out to be unnecessary, however. Jacqueline bumped into Connor coming around the corner of a building, his knuckles scraped from fisticuffs, presumably.

"Connor!" Jacqueline stepped back and patted his arm. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but I must catch up to Lee. He should not be far." He looked around, nearly bouncing on his heels in anticipation. Turning his attention to her, he added, "You are injured."

Jacqueline held her bleeding shoulder tighter. "I will be fine."

"Find help. I will get to Lee myself."

"I want to come with you. God knows you need looking after."

"No." His tone was so final and almost stern, she was brought up short. "This is something I will do alone. I will not put you at risk again."

"Connor…" Jacqueline ran her free hand down her face. A blow to her pride though it was, she would honour his wishes. This was, true, something that was deeper than a kill. It was interwoven with Connor's preconceptions of honour and revenge, and to try and stop that was against the nature of man. "Very well. It's only right, I suppose. Just please be careful."

He touched her cheek, his hand smearing the red berry-paint that still stained her face. "Will you be safe here?"

"Yes. Furie will protect me. Now go, before you lose him." She removed his hand from her face, kissed it briefly, then turned to whistle to Furie. The beast turned to her, the fur on his breast and face matted and dripping scarlet. It was very unsettling. "Come. Help me."

He padded to her and patiently waited as she pulled herself up to lay between canine shoulder blades. "Go, now."

While she shifted and tried to stay balanced on Furie's back, a feat that was much easier said than done, Jacqueline reached down and dug her fingers into the hole in her leg. Her teeth dug deep into her lip until she tasted copper and her eyes burned, but she was able to remove the metal ball and toss it away. Her trouser leg was already soaked in blood, and she was beginning to feel dizzy. Her fingers went numb, the not unfamiliar lightheaded sensation as her blood pressure plummeted.

"Turn." She lifted her arm, feeling heavy, to signal Furie to turn, otherwise the damn animal would likely just run all the way to the Homestead.

Nearly sliding off at the sharp turn, she continued leading him around the city, stopping short at the doorway to a typical-looking house, crammed alongside a street of others that looked similar. Jacqueline stumbled off of Furie, waiting a moment while she adjusted to the head rush, nearly blacking out. Gaining some composure, she hobbled to the door and slapped her hand against the wood. The green paint was chipping to expose the rough timber underneath.

The door was opened by a baby-faced young man, who looked moderately bored and was holding a candlestick in one hand. Despite the hour, he was fully dressed. "Yes, how may I help you?"

"You're O'Callaghan's boy, _oui? _His assistant? We met at the Battle of Bunker Hill." She leaned against the doorframe, grimacing.

The boy looked her over again. "Yes, I remember you."

The candlelight flickered in the dark, and with it dark memories. Jacqueline hurriedly reached out and put the flame out before it triggered one of her unpleasant panics. "Sorry. Please. I am badly in need of help."

Glancing around the deserted street, the boy nodded. "Of course. Come in, quickly."

Jacqueline limped inside. Furie attempted to follow, but the set of his canine shoulders and the narrow doorway stopped him. The apprentice led her down the dark, claustrophobic hall. Their steps contrasted; one set was steady, the other staggering. When she slumped into the wall he patiently helped her stand.

"Come on now, take your time. There we go." They continued around a corner. "I'm afraid I don't remember your name. That was several years back, you remember. This place is mine now that the doctor's gone to live on that cosy spot of land with you lot. Hey, hey, careful. Okay. Can you walk? Come along. Take a seat over here. I'm Bernard, if you don't remember."

Bernard gathered some simple but moderately high-grade supplies: gauze, needle and thread, a bottle of what looked to be either wine or whiskey, and a leather chew. "Sit still. Drink this."

Jacqueline unsteadily accepted the bottle and threw back a few good swigs of it. The alcohol, with her pathetic tolerance, burned down to her stomach and didn't help her foggy vision. "Thank you." She yawned.

"Don't thank me yet. Hey!" He slapped her, hard. "Stay awake. You've lost a lot of blood. All these bullets…what in the blazes were you doing?"

"I was, I, uh…there, was…" Jacqueline lolled her head. The room spun. She tasted alcohol, copper, something bitter. "The, the. What?" She waved her hand at the bottle. "What, what?"

"It's whiskey. Good God, you're absolutely sloshed. Stay awake." Her eyelid was pulled open. A light smack on both sides of her face.

"Awake!" Jacqueline sat up straighter. "Connor. Find. Find…Connor."

"Right. We'll find Connor. Don't worry. Now, bite this."

A musty smell and taste and a rough texture in her mouth. Before she could protest, pain burst through her shoulder, up her neck and down her arm in a full radius like an explosion. The pain and alcohol mercifully spared her of the rest.

-o-

"Ugh…" A throbbing ache pulsed in Jacqueline's temples. She groaned, long a despairing. "_Augh…_"

"Please stop, we've all had a late night." A young Scottish voice to her side gave her something to focus on. Bernard was sitting in a chair beside her, eating a bowl of something bland-looking. "Morning. How do you feel?"

"How do you think I feel?" She countered grouchily. "_Merde. _What happened?"

"How much do you remember?" Bernard stood and gauged her temperature with the back of his hand, then grasped her wrist and measured to her pulse.

"I remember…finding this place. Walking down a hall. That's when it gets…difficult." Jacqueline stood carefully.

"Careful, careful. You took quite a beating. Two holes there and there," He gestured to her shoulder and ankle. "A sprained ankle, and a few minor cuts and bruises. You'll be fine, but you really should rest."

"I can't. I need to find—"

"Connor. I know." At her look, Bernard shrugged and continued eating. "You mentioned him several times. He was that hulking native man with you at Breed's Hill, right? The one you liked being nearby."

Jacqueline looked away, embarrassed at herself for being such an open book. "_Oui."_

The apprentice—doctor now, she supposed—chuckled. "I knew it. Mary! It's her lover!"

A female voice from somewhere else in the house called back, "Sod off, Bernard, I'm keeping my money!"

Bernard laughed loudly at the response, then again addressed the Assassin. "Well, if you really want to leave, I can't stop you. Not with that…whatever-it-is outside. Been waiting all night for you to…"

"All night! How long have I been out?" Jacqueline interrupted, standing and pulling her robes on over the tight bandaging.

"All night. It's…about early morning now."

Testing her weight on her bandaged leg, she stood up and strode into the hall as best she could. "Thank you for your help, truly. I expected I would find the doctor here when I arrived, but it is good to find someone I can trust." At the front door, she turned back to shake his hand. "If you want, you may join us on our Homestead."

"No thank you. It's a kind offer, but I enjoy living here." Bernard smiled and nodded to her. "Good luck."

Jacqueline stepped out the door. Furie was waiting for her, bounded out from behind the house. The blood in his fur had dried to a rusty crust. The wolf crouched to let her climb on. "Find Connor." She told him, and they tore off into the city.

Steering around the main streets, they tore off out of the radius of buildings. The suburbs dwindled away to become towering trees. Bugs flicked against Jacqueline's face with the wind. The pair bounded through the trees beside the trail for some time, wind rushing and paws padding heavily against the spongy earth. When her arse became sore from Furie's ill-equipped shoulder blades, they jogged side by side for the last leg of the quest. Leading, her companion stopped at the top of a small hill. An inn was nestled below, small and nondescript.

"Thank you, my friend." Jacqueline patted Furie's nose, then slid and limped down to the inn.

As she approached the door, Connor stumbled out. In the vermilion light of the setting sun, the scarlet in his robes shimmered like water. "Connor!" Jacqueline hurried up to him, keeping a wary eye out. It would be best not to attract unwanted attention in their conditions.

"Connor, oh, hell…" She knelt next to him, helping him to stand. Her hand was warm and slick, but she ignored it. "I knew I should have gone with you, I knew it."

"Jacqueline…" Connor wheezed. "It's done."

She hesitated. "You mean Lee…" He nodded. "Talk about it later. I need to help you. Come here."

In a series of short, shuffling bursts of movement, they inched around the side of the building. Connor hissed when Jacqueline sliced the front of his robes open. Bloodied splinters of wood slipped out around her fingers. Breathing steadily out her nose, she wiped them away and began wrapping the wound in bandaging. When she leaned in the roll the cloth around his back, she could hear his breathing, laboured but steady.

"Are you able to move?" She asked, sitting back on her heels and tying the knot off.

Connor sat up carefully, holding his middle. "Yes. Slowly." He allowed her to help him stand, though she was of little use because of the massive weight difference.

"Furie can take you to the Homestead," Jacqueline grunted, shouldering him while she limped on her own sprained ankle. "I will meet you there by tonight. You'll be there in just an hour or two if you ride fast."

"I will not leave you behind." He insisted, although he did accept the change of leader from Jacqueline to Furie, the latter of whom had bounded down the hill and stopped near them.

"Yes, you will." Jacqueline smiled lightly and ghosted her hand down the bald side of his head to rest on his cheek. "It's my turn to save you."

Connor put his hand over hers, warm but clammy from injury. Without anything more, he pulled himself onto the crouched Furie. Jacqueline snapped the order for returning home in French to her pet. With a rustle of late summer leaves and heavy paws, her closest friends tore away into the nearby woods and soon vanished into the thicket.

_-o-_

_-Back in those days boys and girls smoked just as much as their parents, because smoking was considered healthy and beneficial, as it "dried" your body out. Chewing tobacco is really gross but I figured smoking would be a bad habit for assassins to pick up because smoke is pretty conspicuous. _

_-I just learned an incredibly stupidly obvious fact about bathing that I should have looked into, I learned it by chance just a bit too late. ;A; let's just overlook the bathing thing from last chapter, heheh... I may possibly edit it to be more historically accurate, actually. Whatever._

_-This chapter was really hard to write for some reason?_


	42. Sequence 12 Synched

"_True love stories never have endings." –Richard Bach_

_-o-_

Snow drifted down onto the manor's roof. The land was covered in the beginnings of the first chill of the season. Grass frosted over, the world absorbed its own sound and all was quiet. Animals who had been preparing for winter were caught off guard by the early snowfall, and scampered away to dens and niches. A beacon of light and heat, the manor shone down on the nearby houses and forest.

Inside the house on the hill, a killer was hanging a portrait.

Connor set the painting of a youthful Achilles above the fireplace in the manor. Jacqueline watched from a nearby chair; her shoulders rose in a light sigh. Her fellow Assassin stood back to admire it. The bald sides of his head were growing back slightly, a peach fuzz already forming. He walked with a more distinct limp than her due to whatever injury he had sustained in his chase after Lee—an event that he refused to speak about in depth. The portraits of their Templar targets, organised so long ago, burned in the fireplace, sending charred bits of parchment dancing in disjointed circles around the hearth.

Jacqueline stood, putting her weight on the leg that did not have a healing bullet hole in it, and shuffled out of the living room. The door to the cellar was open already, and she hobbled down the creaky wooden stairs. The timber was worn out and smooth from so many trips up and down.

The cellar seemed much more empty then it ever had before. Cold from the outside weather, it felt uninviting. Despite this, Jacqueline looked around with nostalgia and a faint smile. At the long table that had once been overlooked by Templars, she rubbed a finger on the charcoal name of _Lee_, now unaccompanied by a picture. A word she had never noticed was scrawled across the wall where the name _Haytham Kenway—Grandmaster _was advertised. It was a long, complex word in Connor's native tongue, one she would not have a chance of pronouncing.

On some silent cue, Connor approached her and also stared at the empty wall. Jacqueline leaned against the table and gestured to the word. "What does that mean?"

He followed her direction and hesitated. "Nothing important."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, you forget I can tell when you lie."

"It was…foolish sentiment."

"What does it say?"

Connor didn't meet her gaze. When he spoke, it was an ashamed mutter. For a moment, Jacqueline saw the naïve boy she had met in a storm, in the stables, in a fight, in the dark. "'I made a mistake.'"

She was silent after that. They leaned into each other, wounded but healing, and stared at the blank stone wall.

-o-

In her sleep, Jacqueline was haunted.

Jilting forests leaned in dark shards around her. Guided through the maze by some kind of instinct, she stumbled and wove through the surreally shadowed realm. In the dark, a figure of blinding white emerged from around a bend. Jacqueline recognised the judicial hook of her nose and jerking, holographic robes instantly.

"I did not know if I would see you again." She did not recognise her own voice. "Not that I was particularly looking forward to it."

"We are always watching. Waiting." The woman paced back, forth, stopped. No matter how she moved, it was hard to keep a steady eye on her. There was something difficult about looking directly at her, like staring straight up into a clear sky. "I have watched and waited long enough."

"Do you expect me to be intimidated?"

"Perhaps. But I am no threat, for now. Merely checking on your progress."

"Why are you so interested in me—in us?" Jacqueline followed her warily.

The judging woman stopped and looked at her. "I have an investment in your success."

Jacqueline glared back at her. "So my life has been nothing but a gamble for you. I do not think I will do any more bidding for you, spectre."

"Hm. What you do now no longer concerns me. All that matters is this," She reached out a shimmering finger and gently prodded Jacqueline's lower abdomen. "And history will play out the way it will."

The assassin withdrew sharply, perturbed by the woman's sudden closeness. "What…what do you mean by that?" She rubbed the spot where she had touched, which burned lightly.

The woman smirked, not particularly kindly. "You will notice before long. I can see ahead, being as I am. Now go, and do not think on me any longer."

The dream dissolved around Jacqueline, the shadowed trees breaking away, the woman falling apart into dust until all was left were her piercing, judging eyes. Then they too vanished, and Jacqueline drifted in her dreams until the morning found her.

-o-

The inn was lively for the wedding reception. A few residents who knew how to play instruments played out an upbeat tune. Myriam and Norris danced to it, both beaming happily at each other. A few scattered couples joined and dropped out, but mostly left the floor to the newlyweds. Jacqueline stood with Georges, watching the residents eat, drink, and be merry.

"Care for a drink, m'lady?" Georges slurred, handing over a mug.

"You're drunk, _mon amie._" She grinned, glancing up at him, but ignoring the drink. "How are you and that woman faring? Apologies, I've forgotten her name."

"Ah, Amelie. She's back at the Market." He shrugged, smiling dumbly.

"You seem to like her quite a lot. It's good to see you in such a love-struck mood."

"Well, you know. She reminds me of René. She has this…" He made a fist, trying to find the right words. "Spark. I see her, and…I'm on fire again."

Jacqueline watched him. Georges stared into space, and swallowed hard. For all his joviality and lightheartedness, he was still a child inside. Jacqueline wondered what would have happened if she had stayed in France instead of stowing away. Would he have grown up? Without the death of René, would he have taken a different career than professional thief?

"You're a good man, Georges." Jacqueline patted his shoulder. "Do not let yourself be deluded out of that fact."

Georges nodded. "_Merci, _Jacqueline. _Merci beaucoup._" He looked up and gave her a light elbow in the side. Across the room, Connor had looked up from his conversation with Godfrey and Terry to observe the French pair conversing. "It seems someone wants to talk to you. I'll see you soon."

"Are you leaving?"

"_Oui, _it's probably best I return to the Market before things get out of hand. Even with a few drinks in me, I'm a better leader than most there."

"Very well. Be safe, my friend."

When Georges left, Connor came by to take his place. "So," Jacqueline moved closer. "Are we done?" She murmured, leaning into him.

Connor put an arm around her shoulders. "Done?"

"With…everything. Hunting Templars." Jacqueline sighed deeply. "I'm tired, Connor. I feel twice my age."

"The road ahead will be long, and far from easy. There is much that needs doing." He replied in his thoughtful, purposed way. "But for now, yes. I believe we are done."

Jacqueline smiled and rested a hand on her stomach. Two months after her dream of the mysterious woman, a prominent bump had begun to show. When she looked at it in just the right way, and the world went dark, a tiny blue nebula swirled there.

"What will we do?" At his silence, she chuckled and shook her head. "Whatever we want, yes? We'll do whatever we want."

-o-

_-Very unsatisfied with this. But…I think that's it! I just wanted to say that this story was such a pleasure to write, probably the most fun I've had writing one so far. Special thanks to every single one of you who reviewed and favorited this stupid little story. It kept me going long enough to finish it, and without all of you I never would have made it this far. So I guess, nothing is true, everything is permitted. Happy hunting! ;) _


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